if:' '^//;. I- 





LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



QDDD077aT^D 






FEMALE PROSE WRITERS. 




^/,.,/v ^//^^/^-- > 



y 



THE 



/ 
b 



FEMALE PEOSE WRITERS 



OF 



AMERICA 



WITH PORTRAITS, BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES, AND 
SPECIMENS OF THEIR WRITINGS. 



BY JOHN S. HART, LL.D. 



g^to d^Mtinn, 'gM$th m)i Mi\x0. 



> 



PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & CO. 

1855. 






x^^ 



Entered aeeorJing to the Act of Congress, in the year 1S51, by 

E. II. BUTLER & CO., 

in the Clerk's olBce of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern 

District of Pennsylvania. 






f 



PREFACE. 

The unwonted favour extended to " Read's Female Poets of 
America," led to the belief that a work on the Female Prose 
Writers, constructed on a similar plan, would be not unacceptable 
to the public. 

In the preparation of the biographies, much difficulty has been 
experienced. Few things are more intangible and elusive, than 
the biography of persons still living, and yet, in the case of those who 
have pleased us by their writings, few things are more interesting. 
It seems to be an instinctive desire of the human heart, on becom- 
ing acquainted with any work of genius, to know something of its 
author. Nor is this mere idle curiosity. It is a part of that 
homage, which every mind rightly constituted, spontaneously offers 
to whatever is great or good. This feeling of personal interest in 
an author who has moved us, is greatly increased where, as in the 
case of most female writers, the subjects of which they write, are 
chiefly of an emotional nature, carrying with them on every page 
the unmistakeable impress of personal sympathy, if not experience. 
Women, far more than men, write from the heart. Their own 
likes and dislikes, their feelings, opinions, tastes, and sympathies are 
so mixed up with those of their subject, that the interest of the 

(0) 



vi r R E F A C E . 

reader is often enlisted quite as much for the writer, as for the 
hero, of a tale. 

KnoAving, therefore, how general is this desire to become ac- 
quainted with the personal history of authors, I have taken special 
pains, in preparing a work on the Female Prose Writers of the 
country, to make the biographical sketches as full and minute as 
circumstances Avould justify, or the writers themselves would allow. 
The work contains two charming pieces of autobiography, now 
appearing for the first time, from two long-established favourites 
with the public. Miss Leslie and Mrs. Oilman. In almost all cases 
the information has been obtained directly by correspondence Avith 
the authors, or their friends. Where this has failed, recourse has 
been had to the best printed authorities. The work, it is believed, 
will be found to contain an unusual amount of authentic informa- 
tion, and on subjects where authentic information is equally desir- 
able and difficult to obtain. 

The task of making selections has not been easy. I have studied, 
as far as possible, to select passages characteristic of the diiferent 
styles of each writer, and at the same time to present the reader 
with an agreeable variety. 

Those who have not been led professionally, or otherwise, to exa- 
mine the subject particularly, will probably be surprised at the 
evidences of the rapid growth of literature, among American women, 
during the present generation. When Hannah Adams first published 
her "View of all Religions," so rare was the example of a woman 
who could write a book, that she was looked upon as one of the 
wonders of the Western world. Learned men of Europe sought her 
acquaintance, and entered into correspondence with her. Yet now, 
less than twenty years since the death of Hannah Adams, a pon- 
derous volume of nearly five hundred pages is hardly sufficient to 
enrol the names of those of our female writers, who have already 
adorned the annals of literature by their prose writings, to say 



PREFACE. vii 

nothing of the numerous and not less distinguished sisterhood, wlio 
have limited themselves to poetry. 

A word in regard to the portraits. These have been made, wher- 
ever it was practicable from original paintings or drawings. 



NOTE TO THE REVISED EDITION. 

In preparing this work for a new edition the biographies, in the 
case of authors still living, have been carefully revised and 
brought up to the present time, and a considerable number of new 
names has been introduced, increasing materially the size of the 
work. 

September, 1854. 



CONTENTS. 



•^ CATHERINE M, SEDaWIOK : paqb 

BIOGRAPHICAl NOTICE ••........ 17 

MAGNETISM AMONG THE SHAKERS ........ 19 

THE SABBATH IN NEW ENGLAND ......... 24 

/ ELIZA LESLIE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ........ .26 

AUTOBIOGRAPnT ••■......*.. 27 

MRS. DEERINGTON'S RECEPTION DAY ........ 32 

CAROLINE GILMAN: 

■' BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 49 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY ...,....•. 49 

'SARAH HALL: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ... ...... 58 

ON FASHION ........... 60 

MARIA J. McINTOSH: 

^ BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 63 

TWO PORTRAITS ....... . . 69 

\^ LYDIA H. SIGOURNET : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 76 

THE LOST CHILDREN .......... 84 

I HAVE SEEN AN END OF ALL PERFECTION ........ 90 

/ SARAH J. HALE,: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 93 

FROM '• woman's record" ......... 95 

THE MODE ........... 96 

' EMMA C. WILLAED : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 100 

HOW TO TEACH .......... 103 

WHAT TO TEACH ........... 103 

CARE OF HEALTH .......... 104 

ON THE FORCE THAT MOVES THE BLOOD ........ 106 

. ALMIR A HART LINCOLN PHELPS: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 107 

EDUCATION ............ 108 

ENERGY OP MIND . ......... 108 

EFFECTS OF EXCITEMENTS . . ....... J09 

THE CHILD AND NATURE ......... 110 

2 {9l\ 



X CONTENTS. 

J LOmSA O. TUTHILL: page 

BIOGEiPHICAL NOTICE .......... 114 

DOMESTIC AECHITECIUEE IN THE UNITED STATES ...... 114 

"^CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 116 

THE MYSTERY OF TISITINQ ....... . 117 

LYDIA M.'CHILD : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ...... ... 127 

OLE BUL .......... 129 

THE UMBRELLA GIRL .......... 133 

■'eMMA C. EMBURY: 

biographical notice , . . . . . . . . . 139 

two faces under one hood ......... 140 

"^MARY S. B. SHINDLER: 

biographical notice .......... 153 

a day in new york . . . . . ... . . . 158 

CAROLINE LEE HENTZ: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE . . . ... 162 

AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP BAG .......... 165 

■^HANNAH ADAMS: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE . . . . . . . . . . 1"2 

THE GNOSTICS . . . . . . . . . . . 173 

''ELIZABETH F. ELLET: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ......,.., 1V7 

MARY SLOCUMB ........... 17S 

V E OAKES SMITH : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 189 

THE MYSTERY OF THE MOUNTAIN ......... 190 

THE ANGEL AND THE MAIDEN ......... 194 

^ LOUISA S. McCORD : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE . . . . . , . . . . 198 

THE EIGHT TO LABOUR ......... 199 

v' ANN S. STEPHENS : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 204 

THE QUILTING PARTY .......... 205 

• EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE . . . . . . . . . . 211 

THE NEGLECTED CHILDREN IN THE ATTIC ....... 216 

/THERESE LOUISE ALBERTINE ROBINSON (Talvj): 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ....... . . 224 

SLAVIC SUPERSTITIONS ......... 225 

V FRANCES S. OSGOOD : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 229 

THE MAGIC LUTE .......... 230 



ELIZABETH C. KINNEY: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 237 

OLD MAIDS ........... 238 

THE SONNET ........... 240 

HARRIET FARLEY : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ..... .... 244 

ABBY'S year in LOWELL ..... .... 246 

MARY H. EASTMAN : 

biographical notice . . . . . , . . . 255 

bhah-co-pee; the orator of the sioux . . .... 256 



CONTENTS. 



'' S. MARGARET FULLER : page 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 206 

A SHORT ESSAY ON CRITICS ........ 268 

'' CATHERINE E. BEEOHER : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE . ..... ... 275 

HABIT . . . . . . • . • . . . 277 

, "^HARRIET BEEOHER STOWE : 

'' BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE . ......... 2S6 

THE TEA ROSE ... ........ 288 

•'SARA H. BROWNE: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ......... 206 

A SALUTATION TO FREDEIKA BREMEE . . . . . ._ . . 299 

MARIA J. B. BROWNE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE . . ........ 302 

^ ' LOOKING UP IN THE ■WORLD . . ....... 304 

>' ELIZABETH BOGART : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 316 

ARTHUR MOWBRAY .......... 318 

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD ......... 321 

•^ JANE ELIZABETH LARCOMBE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ....... . . 322 

inODGHTS BY THE WAYSIDE ......... 322 

"^ EMILY 0. JUDSON : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 325 

LUCY BUTTON ........... S26 

MY FIRST GRIEF . . . . . . . . . . iS32 

>- SARA J. LIPPINCOTT : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ....... . . 334 

A DREAM OF DEATH .......... 336 

EXTRACT FROM A LETTER .......... 339 

•^ANNE C. LYNCH: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE . . ' . . . . . . , . 343 

FEEDEIKA BREMER .... ..... 346 

/mARY E. HEWITT : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 354 

A LEGEND OF IRELAND ... ...... 355 

Alice b. neal : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ......... 363 

THE CHILD LOVE ........... 365 

/ CLARA MOORE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ......... 377 

THE YOUNG HHNISTER'S CHOICE ......... 378 

• ANN E. PORTER : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ......... 387 

COUSIN HELEN'S BABY .......... 388 

^ E. W. BARNES: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE . . . . . . . . . 395 

THE YOUNG RECTOR .......... 395 

/ANNE T. WILBUB: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICB .......... 402 

ALICE VERNON ... .... • . 403 

*' ELIZA L. SPROAT : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICB .......... 409 

THE ENCHANTED LUTE ......... 409 



xii CONTENTS. 

'. SUSAN FENIMORE COOPER : PAf'E 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE . . . .... . • . • 413 

SPIDERS ............ 413 

HUMUnNO-BrRDS ........ . 415 

WEEDS ............ 418 

^Z ELIZABETH WETHEEELL : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 421 

LITTLE ELLEN AST) THE SHOPMAN ......... 424 

^ AMY LOTHROP : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 432 

THE STORY OF THE PINE CONE . . . . ... 433 

SPRING WEATHER ..... .... 435 

/ CAROLIlSrE ORNE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ....... • ■ 43G 

DR. PLUMLEY ......... . 43S 

> CAROLINE MAY : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 441 

EANDEL ........... 441 

LUCRETIA AND MARGARET DAVIDSON ........ 442 

' JULIA C. R. DORR: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 447 

HILLSIDE COTTAGE . . . . . . . . . . . 448 

•'MARY ELIZABETH MORAGNE: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ......... 453 

THE HUOnENOT TOWN . . . . . . . . . . 455 

MARY ELIZABETH LEE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ......... 458 

EXTRACT FROM A LETTER .......... 4C0 

-■^ MARY J. WINDLE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE ......... 463 

ALICE HEATH'S INTERVIEW WITH CROMWELL ....... 464 

■^ FANNY FERN : 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE . . . . . . . . . . 470 

THE AGED MINISTER VOTED A DISMISSION ........ 476 

THE FASHIONABLE PREACHER ......... 477 

FATHER TAYLOR, THE SAILOR'S PREACHER ....... 478 

THE baby's complaint ......... 481 

" MILK FOR BABES" .......... 482 

UNCLE JOLLY ........... 483 

THANKSGIVING STORY . . . . . . . ■ . . . 487 

y 

' ALICE CAREY : 

biographical notice .......... 4S9 

MRS. HILL AND MRS. TROOST ......... 491 

, FRANCES MIRIAM BERRY : 

biographical notice .......... 498 

MRS. MUDL-^W'S recipe FOR POTATO PUDDING ....... 502 

• ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS : 

biographical notice ... ...... 507 

imagination ........... 509 

ART ............ 510 

"CAROLINE CHESEBRO' : 

biographical notice . . . . . . . . . .512 

the pauper child and the dead woman ....... 514 

V ELIZA FARRAR : 

biographical notice . . . . . . . . . .517 

EEOTHEKS AJfD SISTERS . . . . . . . . . 518 



% 



CONTENTS. xiii 

"'HANINTAH F. LEE: page 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE . . . . . , . . . . 521 

BEOIJfXIXQ LIFE .......... 522 

LIVISO BEYOND THE MEANS ......... 523 

"^ CAROLINE THOMAS: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 525 

TRIALS ............ 52t3 

/ELLEN LOUISE CHANDLER: 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE .......... 5.32 

■' I CANNOT MAKE lUM DEAD" . ........ 535 



PORTRAITS 



EXECUTED IN THE FIRST STYLE OF ART. 



SUBJECT. 

FANNY FORRESTER 
MISS SEDGWICK 
Mas. KIRKLAND . 
MRS. OENTZ 
MRS. ELLET 
MRS. STEPHENS 
MARGARET FULLER 
MRS. NEAL 



PAINTER. 

ROTUERMEL 

INGHAM 

MARTIN 



. READ 



CROOME 
. IIICKS 
FDRNESS 



PAGE 

Frontispiece 
. 116 



162 
ITT^ 



20i 



. 266 



t^ 



363 



V^ 



(15) 



13 CATHERINE M. SEDGWICK. 

finished, however, the opinions and solicitations of her friends prevailed 
over her own earnest wishes, and the volume was given to the world in 
1822. The original intention of this book led the author to give special 
prominence to topics of a questionable character for a professed novel, and 
the unfavourable portraiture which she gives, both here and elsewhere, of 
New England Puritanism, has naturally brought upon her some censure. 
The limited plan of the story did not give opportunity for the display of 
that extent and variety of power which appear in some of her later pro- 
ductions. Still it contains passages of stirring eloquence, as well as of 
deep tenderness, that will compare favourably with anything she has 
written. Perhaps the chief value of ''The New England Tale" was its 
effect upon the author herself. Its publication broke the ice of difl&dence 
and indifference, and launched her, under a strong wind, upon the broad 
sea of letters. 

"Redwood" accordingly followed in 1824. It was received at once 
with a degree of favour that caused the author's name to be associated, 
and on equal terms, with that of Cooper, who was then at the height of his 
popularity ; and, indeed, in a French translation of the book, which then 
appeared. Cooper is given on the title-page as the author. " Redwood" 
was also translated into the Italian, besides being reprinted in England. 

The reputation of the author was confirmed and extended by the 
appearance, in 1827, of "Hope Leslie," the most decided favourite of all 
her novels. She has written other things since, that in the opinion of 
some of the critics are superior to either "Redwood" or " Hope Leslie." 
But, these later writings have had to jostle their way among a crowd of 
competitors, both domestic and foreign. Her earlier works stood alone, and 
" Hope Leslie," especially, became firmly associated in the public mind 
with the rising glories of a native literature. It was not only read with 
lively satisfaction, but familiarly quoted and applauded as a source of 
national pride. 

Her subsequent novels followed at about uniform intervals ; " Clarence, 
a Tale of our Own Times," in 1830 ; " Le Bossu," one of the Tales of 
the " Glauber Spa," in 1832 ; and " The Linwoods, or Sixty Years Since 
in America," in 1835. 

In 1836, she commenced writing in quite a new vein, giving a series of 
illustrations of common life, called " The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich 
Poor Man." These were followed, in 1837, by " Live and Let Live," 
and afterwards by " Means and Ends," a " Love Token for Children," 
and " Stories for Young Persons." 

In 1839, Miss Sedgwick went to Europe, and while there, wrote 
"Letters from Abroad to Kindred at Home." These were collected 
after her return, and published in two volumes. 

She has written also a " Life of Lucretia M. Davidson," and has con- 
tributed numerous articles to the Annuals and the Magazines. Some of 



CATHERINE M. SEDGWICK. IQ- 

her recent publications have been prepared expressly for children Knd 
3'oung persons. " The Boy of Mount Rhigi/' published in 1848, is one 
of a series of tales projected for the purpose of diffusing sentiments of 
goodness among the young. The titles of some of her other small vo- 
lumes are " Facts and Fancies," " Beatitudes and Pleasant Sundays," 
''Morals of Manners," ''Wilton Harvey," "Home," "Louisa and her 
Cousins," " Lessons without Books," &c. 

The quality of mind which is most apparent in Miss Sedgwick's writ- 
ings is that of strength. The reader feels at every step that he has to do 
with a vigorous and active intellect. Another quality, resulting from this 
possession of power, is the entire absence of affectation of every kind. 
There is no straining for effect, no mere verbal prettinesses. The discourse 
proceeds with the utmost simplicity and directness, as though the author 
were more intent upon what she is saying than how she says it. And 
yet, the mountain springs of her own Housatonick do not send up a 
more limpid stream, than is the apparently spontaneous flow of her pure 
English. As a novelist, Miss Sedgwick has for the most part wisely cho- 
sen American subjects. The local traditions, scenery, manners, and 
costume, being thus entirely familiar, she has had greater freedom in the 
exercise of the creative faculty, on which, after all, real eminence in the 
art mainly depends. Her characters are conceived with distinctness, and 
are minutely individual and consistent, while her plot always shows a mind 
fertile in resources and a happy adaptation of means to ends. 



MAGNETISM AMONG THE SHAKERS. 

One of the brethren from a Shaker settlement in our neighbour- 
hood, called on us the other day. I was staying with a friend, in 
"whose atmosphere there is a moral power, analogous to some 
chemical test, which elicits from every form of humanity whatever 
of sweet and genial is in it. Our visiter was an old acquaintance, 
and an old member of his order, having joined it more than forty 
years ago with his wife and two children. I have known marked 
individuals among these people, and yet it surprises me when I sec 
an original stamp of character, surviving the extinguishing mono- 
tony of life, or rather suspended animation among them. What 
God has impressed man cannot efface. To a child's eye, each leaf 
of a tree is like the other ; to a philosopher's each has its distinc- 
tive mark. Our friend W.'s individuality might have struck a 
careless observer. He has nothing of the angular, crusty, silent 




'^^.^^^^^^e^^-^^^ 




CATHERINE M. SEDGWICK. 



Miss Sedgwick holds about the same position among our female prose 
writers that Cooper holds among American novelists. She -was the first 
of her class whose writings became generally known, and the eminence 
universally conceded to her on account of priority, has been almost as 
generally granted on other grounds. Amid the throng of new competitors 
for public favour, who have entered the arena within the last few years, 
there is not one, probably, whose admirers would care to disturb the well- 
earned laurels of the author of " Redwood" and " Hope Leslie." 

Miss Sedgwick is a native, and has been much of her life, a resident of 
Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Her father was the Hon. Theodore Sedgwick, 
of Stockbridge, who served his country with distinguished reputation in 
various stations, and particularly in the Congress of the United States, 
as Speaker of the House of Representatives, and afterwards as Senator, 
and who, at the time of his death, was one of the Judges of the Supreme 
Court of his own State. Her brothers, Henry and Theodore, have both 
been distinguished as lawyers and as political writers. On the mother's 
side, she is connected with the Dwight family, of whom her grandfather, 
Joseph Dwight, was a Brigadier-General in the Massachusetts Provincial 
forces, and actively engaged in the old French war of 1756. 

Judge Sedgwick died in 1813, before his daughter had given any public 
demonstration of her abilities as a writer. Her talents seem to have been 
from the first justly appreciated by her brothers, whose judicious encou- 
ragement is very gracefully acknowledged in the preface to the new edition 
of her works, commenced by Mr. Putnam, in 1849. 

Miss Sedgwick's first publication was " The New England Tale." The 
author informs us in the preface, that the story was commenced as a 
religious tract, and that it gradually grew in her hands, beyond the proper 
limits of such a work. Finding this to be the case, she abandoned all 
design of publication, but finished the tale for her own amusement. Once 
3 (17) 



20 CATHERINE M. SEDGWICK. 

aspect of most of his yea and nay brethren, who have a perfect 
conviction that they have dived to the bottom of the vv^ell and found 
the pearl truth, while all the rest of the world look upon them as 
at the bottom of a well indeed ; but without the pearl, and with 
only so much light as may come in through the little aperture that 
communicates with the outward woidd. Neither are quite right ; 
the Shaker has no monopoly of truth or holiness, but we believe he 
has enough of both to light a dusky path to heaven. 

Friend Wilcox is a man of no pretension whatever ; but content 
in conscious mediocrity. We were at dinner when he came in ; but 
friend Wilcox is too childlike or too simple, to be disturbed by any 
observances of conventional politeness. He declined an invitation 
to dine, saying he had eaten and was not hungry, and seated him- 
self in the corner, after depositing some apples on the table, of 
rare size and beauty. "I have brought some notions, too," he 

said, ''for you, B ," and he took from his ample pocket his 

handkerchief, in which he had tied up a parcel of sugar plums and 

peppermints. B accepted them most affably, and without any 

apparent recoiling, shifted them from the old man's handkerchief 
to an empty plate beside her. " Half of them," he said, " remem- 
ber, B , are for . You both played and sung to me last 

summer — I don't forget it. She is a likely woman, and makes the 
music sound almost as good as when I was young !" 

This was enthusiasm in the old Shaker ; but to us it sounded 
strangely, who knew that she who had so kindly condescended to 
call back brother Wilcox's youth, had held crowds entranced by her 
genius. Brother Wilcox is a genial old man, and fifty years of 
abstinence from the world's pleasures has not made him forget or 
contemn them. He resembles the jolly friars in conventual life, 
who never resist, and are therefore allowed to go without bits or 
reins, and in a very easy harness. There is no galling in restraint 
where there is no desire for freedom. It is the "immortal long- 
ings" that make the friction in life. After dinner, B , at brother 

Wilcox's request, sate down to the piano, and played for him the 
various tunes that were the favourites in rustic inland life forty 
years ago. First the Highland reel, then "Money Musk." 



CATHERINE M. SEDGWICK. 21 

"I remember who I danced that with," he said, " Sophy Drurj. 
The ball was held in the school room at Feeding fields. She is 
tight built, and cheeks as red as a rose (past and present were con- 
founded in brother Wilcox's imagination). I went home with Sophy 
— it was as light as day, and near upon day — them was pleasant 
times !" concluded the old man, but without one sigh of regret, and 
with a gleam of light from his twinkling gray eye. 

" There have been no such pleasant times since, brother Wilcox, 
has there?" asked B , with assumed or real sympathy. 

" I can't say that, it has been all along pleasant. I have had 
what others call crosses, but I don't look at them that way — what's 
the use ?" 

The old man's philosophy struck me. There was no record of a 
cross in his round jolly face. "Were you married," I asked, 
"when you joined the Shakers?" 

" Oh, yes ; I married at twenty — it's never too soon nor too late 
to do right, you know, and it was right for me to marry according 
to the light I had then. May be you think it was a cross to part 
from my wife — all men don't take it so — but I own I should ; I liked 
Eunice. She is a peaceable woman, and we lived in unity, but it 
was rather hard times, and we felt a call to join the brethren, and 
so we walked out of the world together, and took our two children 
with us. In the society she was the first woman handy in all cases." 

"And she is still with you?" 

"No. Our girl took a notion and went off, and got married, and 
my wife went after her — that's natural for mothers, you know. I 
went after Eunice, and tried to persuade her to come back, and she 
felt so ; but it's hard rooting out mother-love ; it's planted deep, 
and spreads wide ; so I left her to nature, and troubled myself no 
more about it, for what was the use ? My son, too, took a liking 
to a young English girl that was one of our sisters — may be you 
have seen hor ?" We had all seen her and admired her fresh 
English beauty, and deplored her fate. " Well, she was a picture, 
and speaking after the manner of men, as good as she was hand- 
some. They went off together ; I could not much blame them, 



22 CATHERINE M. SEDGWICK. 

and I took no steps after them — for wliat was the use ? But come, 
strike up again ; play ' Haste to the wedding.' " 

B obeyed, and our okl friend sang or chanted a low accom- 
paniment ; in which the dancing tune and the Shaker nasal chant 

were ludicrously mingled. B played all his favourite airs, and 

then said, " You do love dancing, brother Wilcox ?" 

" Yes, to be sure — ' praise him in the cymbals and dances !' " 

" Oh, but I mean such dances as we have here. Would not you 
like, brother Wilcox, to come over and see us dance ?" 

"Why, may be I should." 

" And would not you like to dance with one of our pretty young 
ladies, brother Wilcox?" 

"May be I should;" the old man's face lit up joyously — but he 
smiled and shook his head, " they would not let me, they would 
not let me." Perhaps the old Shaker's imagination wandered 
for a moment from the very straight path of the brotherhood, but 
it was but a moment. His face reverted to its placid passiveness, 
and he said, " I am perfectly content. I have enough to eat and 
drink — everything good after its kind, too — good clothes to wear, 
a warm bed to sleep in, and just as much work as I like, and no 
more." "All this, and heaven too," — of which the old man felt 
perfectly sure — was quite enough to fill the measure of a Shaker's 
desires. 

"Now," said he, "you think so much of your dances, I wish 
you could see one of our young sisters dance, when Ave go up to 
Mount Holy. She has the whirling gift ; she will spin round like 
a top, on one foot, for half an hour, all the while seeing visions, and 
receiving revelations." 

This whirling is a recent gift of the Shakers. The few "world's 
folk" who have been permitted to see its exhibition, compare its 
subjects to the Avhirling Dervishes. 

" Have you any other new inspiration ?" I asked. 

" Gifts, you mean ? Oh, yes ; we have visionists. It's a wonder- 
ful mystery to me. I never was much for looking into mysteries — 
they rather scare me !" Naturally enough, poor childlike old man ! 

"What, brother Wilcox," I asked, "do you mean by a visionist ?" 



CATHERINE M. SEDGWICK. 23 

" I can't exactly explain," he replied. " They see things that 
the natural eye can't see, and hear, and touch, and taste, "with 
inward senses. As for me, I never had any kind of gifts, but a 
contented mind, and submission to those in authority, and I don't 
see at all into this new mystery. It makes me of a tremble when 
I think of it. I'll tell you how it acts. Last summer I was among 
our brethren in York State, and when I was coming away, I went 
down into the garden to take leave of a young brother there. He 
asked me if I would carry something for him to Yesta. Yesta is 
a young sister, famous for her spiritual gifts, whirling, &c." I 
could have added, for I had seen Yesta — for other less questionable 
gifts in the world's estimation — a light graceful figure, graceful 
even in the Shaker straight jacket, and a face like a young Sibyl's. 
" Well," continued brother Wilcox, " he put his hand in his pocket, 
as if to take out something, and then stretching it to me, he said, 
' I want you to give this white pear to Yesta.' I felt to take some- 
thing, though I saw nothing, and a sort of trickling heat ran 
through me ; and even now, when I think of it, I have the same 
feeling, fainter, but the same. When I got home, I asked Yesta if 
she knew that young brother. ' Yea,' she said. I put my hand in 
my pocket and took it out again, to all earthly seeming as empty 
as it went in, and stretched it out to her. ' Oh, a white pear !' she 
said. As I hope for salvation, every word that I tell you is true," 
concluded the old man. 

It was evident he believed every word of it to be true. The 
incredulous may imagine that there was some clandestine inter- 
course between the "young brother" and "young sister," and that 
simple old brother Wilcox was merely made the medium of a fact 
or sentiment, symbolized by the white pear. However that may 
be, it is certain that animal magnetism has penetrated into the cold 
and dark recesses of the Shakers. 



24 CATHERINE M. SEDGWICK. 



THE SABBATH IN NEW ENGLAND. 

The observance of the Sabbath began AYith the Puritans, as it 
still does with a great portion of their descendants, on Saturday 
night. At the going down of the sun on Saturday, all temporal 
aifairs were suspended ; and so zealously did our fathers maintain 
the letter, as well as the spirit of the law, that, according to a 
vulgar tradition in Connecticut, no beer was- brewed in the latter 
part of the week, lest it should presume to work on Sunday. 

It must be confessed, that the tendency of the age is to laxity ; 
and so rapidly is the wholesome strictness of primitive times 
abating, that, should some antiquary, fifty years hence, in explor- 
ing his garret rubbish, chance to cast his eye on our humble 
pages, he may be surprised to learn, that, even now, the Sabbath 
is observed, in the interior of New England, with an almost 
Judaical severity. 

On Saturday afternoon an uncommon bustle is apparent. The 
great class of procrastinators are hurrying to and fro to complete 
the lagging business of the week. The good mothers, like Burns's 
matron, are plying their needles, making " auld claes look amaist 
as weel's the new;" while the domestics, or help (we prefer the 
national descriptive term), are wielding, with might and main, 
their brooms and mops, to make all tidy for the Sabbath. 

As the day declines, the hum of labour dies away, and, after the 
sun is set, perfect stillness reigns in every well-ordered house- 
hold, and not a foot-fall is heard in the village street. It cannot 
be denied, that even the most scriptural, missing the excitement 
of their ordinary occupations, anticipate their usual bed-time. The 
obvious inference from this fact is skilfully avoided by certain 
ingenious reasoners, who allege, that the constitution was origi- 
nally so organized as to require an extra quantity of sleep on 
every seventh night. We recommend it to the curious to inquire, 
how this peculiarity was adjusted, when the first day of the week 
was changed from Saturday to Sunday. 



CATHERINE M. SEDGAVICK. 25 

The Sabbath morning is as peaceful as the first hallowed day. 
Not a human sound is heard without the dwellings, and, but for 
the lowing of the herds, the crowing of the cocks, and the gossipping 
of the birds, animal life would seem to be extinct, till, at the bid- 
ding of the church-going bell, the old and young issue from their 
habitations, and, with solemn demeanour, bend their measured steps 
to the meeting-house ; — the families of the minister, the squire, the 
doctor, the merchant, the modest gentry of the village, and the 
mechanic and labourer, all arrayed in their best, all meeting on 
even ground, and all with that consciousness of independence and 
equality, which breaks down the pride of the rich, and rescues the 
poor from servility, envy, and discontent. If a morning salutation 
is reciprocated, it is in a suppressed voice ; and if, perchance, 
nature, in some reckless urchin, burst forth in laughter — " My 
dear, you forget it's Sunday," is the ever ready reproof. 

Though every face wears a solemn aspect, yet we once chanced 
to see even a deacon's muscles relaxed by the wit of a neighbour, 
and heard him allege, in a half-deprecating, half-laughing voice, 
" The squire is so droll, that a body must laugh, though it be 
Sabbath-day." 

Towards the close of the day (or to borrow a phrase descriptive 
of his feelings, who first used it), " when the Sabbath begins to 
abate," the children cluster about the windows. Their eyes wan- 
der from their catechism to the western sky, and, though it seems 
to them as if the sun would never disappear, his broad disk does 
sloAvly sink behind the mountain ; and, while his last ray still 
lingers on the eastern summits, merry voices break forth, and the 
ground resounds with bounding footsteps. The village belle arrays 
herself for her twilight walk ; the boys gather on " the green ;" the 
lads and girls throng to the "singing-school;" while some coy 
maiden lingers at home, awaiting her expected suitor ; and all 
enter upon the pleasures of the evening with as keen a relish as 
if the day had been a preparatory penance. 



ELIZA LESLIE. 



We havt; room but for a brief preface to the charming autobiograpby 
of Miss Leslie, furnished to our pages by her friend Mrs. Neal, for whom 
it was recently written. All that is of interest in the personal history 
of this gifted lady, she has herself supplied. It only remains for us to 
point out the characteristics of her style, and the great popularity of her 
writings, to which she so modestly alludes. 

Her tales are perfect daguerreotypes of real life ; their actors think, act, 
and speak for themselves ; with a keen eye for the ludicrous, the failings 
of human nature are never portrayed but to warn the young and 
the thoughtless. Her writings are distinguished for vivacity and 
ease of expression, strong common sense, and right principle. In 
her juvenile tales the children are neither " good little girls, or bad little 
boys" — but real little boys and girls, who act and speak with all the 
genuineness and naivete of childhood. No writer of fiction in our coun- 
try has ever had a wider, or more interested circle of readers; and this is 
clearly proved by the increased circulation of all those publications in 
which her name has appeared as a regular contributor. 

It will be noticed that the autobiography is dated from the United 
States Hotel, of this city, where Miss Leslie then resided — a charm 
to its social circle, and sought out by distinguished travellers of many 
nations, as well as those of our own land. Her conversation is quite 
equal to her writings, a circumstance by no means common with authors; 
her remarkable memory furnishing an inexhaustible store of anecdote, 
mingled with sprightly and original opinions. Her early life will be 
learned from the following sketch. 

(26) 



ELIZA LESLIE. 27 

LETTER TO MRS. ALICE B. NEAL. 

My Dear Friend : 

I was born in Philadelphia, at the corner of Market and Second 
streets, on the 15th of November, 178T, and was baptized in Christ 
Church by Bishop White. 

Both my parents were natives of Cecil county, Maryland, also 
the birth-place of my grandfathers and grandmothers on each side. 
My great-grandfather, Robert Leslie, was a Scotchman. He came 
to settle in America about the year 1745 or '46, and bought a farm 
on ISTorth-East River, nearly opposite to the insulated hill called 
Maiden's Mountain. I have been at the place. My maternal 
great-grandfather was a Swede named Jansen. So I have no 
English blood in me. 

My father was a man of considerable natural genius, and much 
self-taught knowledge ; particularly in Natural Philosophy and in 
mechanics. He was also a good draughtsman, and a ready writer 
on scientific subjects ; and in his familiar letters, and in his con- 
versation, there was evidence of a most entertaining vein of hu- 
mour, with extraordinary powers of description. He had an ex- 
cellent ear for music ; and, without any regular instruction, he 
played well on the flute aiid violin. I remember, at this day, many 
fine Scottish airs that I have never seen in print, and which my 
father had learned in his boyhood from his Scottish grandsire, who 
was a good singer. My mother was a handsome woman, of excel- 
lent sense, very amusing, and a first-rate housewife. 

Soon after their marriage, my parents removed from Elkton to 
Philadelphia, where my father commenced business as a watch- 
maker. He had great success. Philadelphia was then the seat 
of the Federal Government ; and he soon obtained the custom of 
the principal people in the place, including that of Washington, 
Franklin, and Jefierson, the two last becoming his warm personal 
friends. There is a free-masonry in men of genius which makes 
them find out each other immediately. It was by Mr. Jefferson's 
recommendation that my father was elected a member of the Ameri- 
can Philosophical Society. To Dr. Franklin he suggested an 



28 ELIZA LESLIE. 

improvement in lightning rods, — gilding the points to prevent their 
rusting, — that was immediately, and afterwards universally adopted. 

Among my father's familiar visiters were Robert Patterson, long 
Professor of Mathematics at the University of Pennsylvania, and 
afterwards President of the Mint ; Charles Wilson Peale, who 
painted the men of the revolution, and founded the noble museum 
called by his name ; John Vaughan, and Matthew Carey. 

When I was about five years old, my father went to England 
Avith the intention of engaging in the exportation of clocks and 
"watches to Philadelphia, having recently taken into partnership 
Isaac Price, of this city. We arrived in London in June, 1793, 
after an old-fashioned voyage of six weeks. We lived in England 
about six years and a half, when the death of my father's partner 
in Philadelphia, obliged us to return home. An extraordinary 
circumstance compelled our ship to go into Lisbon, and detained 
us there from November till March ; and we did not finish our 
voyage and arrive in Philadelphia till May. The winter we spent 
in our Lisbon lodgings was very uncomfortable, but very amusing. 

After we came home, my father's health, which had long been 
precarious, declined rapidly ; but he lived till 1803. My mother 
and her five children (of whom I was the eldest) were left in cir- 
cumstances which rendered it necessary that she and myself should 
make immediate exertions for the support of those who were yet 
too young to assist themselves, as they did afterwards. Our diffi- 
culties we kept uncomplainingly to ourselves. We asked no assist- 
ance of our friends, we incurred no debts, and we lived on cheer- 
fully, and with such moderate enjoyments as our means afforded ; 
believing in the proverb, that "All work and no play make Jack a 
dull boy." 

My two brothers were then, and still are, sources of happiness 
to the family. But they both left home at the age of sixteen. 
Charles, with an extraordinary genius for painting, went to London 
to cultivate it. He rapidly rose to the front rank of his profession, 
and maintains a high place among the great artists of Europe. He 
married in England, and still lives there. 

My youngest brother, Thomas Jefierson Leslie, having passed 



ELIZA LESLIE. 29 

through the usual course of military education, in the West Point 
Academy, was commissioned in the Engineers, and, with the rank 
of Major, is still attached to the army. My sister, Anna Leslie, 
resides in New York. She has several times visited London, where 
she was instructed in painting by her brother Charles, and has been 
very successful in coj^ying pictures. My youngest sister, Patty, 
became the wife of Henry C. Carey, and never in married life was 
happiness more perfect than theirs. 

To return now to myself. Fortunate in being gifted with an 
extraordinary memory, I was never in childhood much troubled 
with long lessons to learn, or long exercises to write. My father 
thought I could acquire sufficient knowledge for a child by simply 
reading " in book," without making any great effort to learn things 
by heart. And as this is not the plan usually pursued at schools, 
I got nearly all my education at home. I had a French master, 
and a music master (both coming to give lessons at the house) ; 
my father himself taught me to write, and overlooked my drawing ; 
and my mother was fully competent to instruct me in every sort 
of useful se"\^'ing. I went three months to school, merely to learn 
ornamental needle-work. All this was in London. We had a 
governess in the house for the younger children. 

My chief delight was in reading and drawing. My first attempts 
at the latter were on my slate, and I was very happy when my father 
brought me one day a box of colours and a drawing-book, and showed 
me how to use them. 

There was no restriction on my reading, except to prevent me 
from "reading my eyes out." And indeed they have never been 
very strong. At that time there were very few books written pur- 
posely for children. I believe I obtained all that were then to be 
found. But this catalogue being soon exhausted, and my appetite 
for reading being continually on the increase, I was fain to supply 
it with works that were considered beyond the capacity of early 
youth — a capacity which is too generally underrated. Children are 
often kept on bread and milk long after they are able to eat meat 
and potatoes. I could read at four years old, and before twelve I 
was familiar, among a multitude of other books, with Goldsmith's 



30 ELIZA LESLIE. 

admirable Letters on England, and his histories of Rome and 
Greece (Robinson Crusoe and the Arabian Nights, of course), and 
I had gone through the six octavo volumes of the first edition of 
Cook's Voyages. I talked much of Tupia and Omiah, and Otoo 
and Terreoboo — Captain Cook I almost adored. Among our 
visiters in London, was a naval officer who had sailed with Cook 
on his last voyage, and had seen him killed at Owhyhee — I am 
sorry the name of that island has been changed to the unspellable 
and unpronounceable Hawaii. I was delighted when my father 
took me to the British Museum, to see the numerous curiosities 
brought from the South Sea by the great circumnavigator. 

The "Elegant Extracts" made me acquainted with the best 
passages in the works of all the British writers who had flourished 
before the present century. From this book I first learned the 
beauties of Shakspeare. My chief novels were Miss Burney's, 
Mrs. Radcliffe's, and the Children of the Abbey. 

Like most authors, I made my first attempts in verse. They 
were always songs, adapted to the popular airs of that time, the 
close of the last century. The subjects were chiefly soldiers, 
sailors, hunters, and nuns. I scribbled two or three in the pas- 
toral line, but my father once pointing out to me a real shepherd, 
in a field somewhere in Kent, I made no farther attempt at 
Damons and Strephons, playing on lutes and wreathing their 
brows with roses. My songs were, of course, foolish enough ; but 
in justice to myself I will say, that having a good ear, I was never 
guilty of a false quantity in any of my poetry — my lines never had 
a syllable too much or too little, and my rhymes always did rhyme. 
At thirteen or fourteen, I began to desjDise my own poetry, and 
destroyed all I had. I then, for many years, abandoned the dream 
of my childhood, the hope of one day seeing my name in print. 

It was not till 1827 that I first ventured "to put out a book," 
and a most unparnassian one it was — " Seventy-five receipts for 
pastry, cakes, and sweetmeats." Truth was, I had a tolerable 
collection of receipts, taken by myself while a pupil of Mrs. Good- 
fellow's cooking school, in Philadelphia. I had so many applica- 
tions from my friends for copies of these directions, that my brother 



ELIZA LESLIE. 31 

suggested my getting rid of the inconvenience hj giving them to 
the public in print. An offer was immediately made to me by 
Munroe & Francis, of Boston, to publish them on fair terms. 
The little volume had much success, and has gone through many 
editions. Mr. Francis being urgent that I should try my hand at 
a work of imagination, I wrote a series of juvenile stories, which I 
called the Mirror. It was well received, and was followed by 
several other story-books for youth — "The Young Americans," 
" Stories for Emma," "Stories for Adelaide," "Atlantic Tales," 
"Stories for Helen," "Birth-day Stories." Also, I compiled a 
little book called "The Wonderful Traveller," being an abridg- 
ment (with essential alterations) of Munchausen, Gulliver, and 
Sindbad. In 1831 Munroe and Francis j)ublished my "American 
Girls' Book," of which an edition is still printed every year. Many 
juvenile tales, written by me, are to be found in the annuals called 
the Pearl and the Violet. 

I had but recently summoned courage to write fictions for grown 
people, when my story of Mrs. Washington Potts obtained a prize 
from Mr. Godey, of the Lady's Book. Subsequently I was allotted 
three other prizes successively, from different periodicals. I then 
withdrew from this sort of competition. 

For several years I wrote an article every month for the Lady's 
Book, and for a short time I was a contributor to Graham's Maga- 
zine ; and occasionally, I sent, by invitation, a contribution to the 
weekly papers. I was also editor of the Gift, an annual published 
by Carey & Hart ; and of the Violet, a juvenile souvenir. 

My only attempt at anything in the form of a novel, was " Ame- 
lia, or a Young Lady's Vicissitudes," first printed in the Lady's 
Book, and then in a small volume by itself. Could I begin anew 
my literary career, I would always write novels instead of short 
stories. 

Three volumes of my tales were published by Carey & Lea, 
under the title of Pencil Sketches. Of these, there will soon be a 
new edition. In 1838 Lea & Blanchard printed a volume con- 
taining " Althea Vernon, or the Embroidered Handkerchief," and 
"Henrietta Harrison, or the Blue Cotton Umbrella." Several 



32 ELIZA LESLIE. 

books of my fugitive stories have been published in pamphlet form, 
— the titles being "Kitty's Relations," "Leonilla Lynmore," 
" The Maid of Canal Street" (the Maid is a refined and accom- 
plished young lady), and " The Dennings' and their Beaux." All 
my stories are of familiar life, and I have endeavoured to render 
their illustrations of ch^jracter and manners, as entertaining and 
instructive as I could; trying always "to point a moral," as well 
as to "adorn a tale." 

The works from w^hich I have, as yet, derived the greatest pecu- 
niary advantage, are my three books on domestic economy. The 
"Domestic Cookery Book," published in 1837, is now in the forty- 
first edition, no edition having been less than a thousand copies ; 
and the sale increases every year. " The House Book" came out 
in 1840, and the "Lady's Receipt Book" in 1846. All have been 
successful, and profitable. 

My two last stories are " Jernigan's Pa," published in the Satur- 
day Gazette, and " The Baymounts," in the Saturday Evening Post. 

I am now engaged on a life of John Fitch, for which I have been 
several years collecting information, from authentic sources. I 
hope soon to finish a work (undertaken by particular desire) for the 
benefit of young ladies, and to which I purpose giving the plain, 
simple title of " The Behaviour Book."* 

U. S. Hotel, Phila., Aug. 1, 1851. 

Eliza Leslie. 



MRS. DERRINGTON'S RECEPTION DAY. 

Major Fayland had departed on his return home, and Sophia's 
tears had flowed fast and long on taking leave of her father. Mrs. 
Derrington reminded her, by way of consolation, that to-morrow 
was "reception day," and that she would then most probably see 
many of the ladies, who, having heard of Miss Fayland's arrival, 
had already left cards for her. 

"And what, dear aunt, is exactly meant by a reception day?" 
inquired Sophia. 

* The " Behaviour Book" has since been published. 



ELIZA LESLIE. 33 

" It is a convenient way of getting through our morning visit- 
ers," replied Mrs. Derrington. "We send round cards at the 
beginning of the season to notify our friends that we are at home 
on a certain morning, once a week. My day is Thursday. I sit 
in the drawing-room during several hours in a handsome Niemi- 
toilette. Full dress is not admissible, of course, at morning recep- 
tions. Any of my friends that wish to see me, take this opportunity ; 
understanding that I receive calls at no other time. They are 
served with chocolate and other refreshments, brought in and 
handed to them soon after their arrival. They talk awhile, and 
then depart. There are some coming in, and some going out all 
the time, and no one staying long. The guests are chiefly ladies ; 
few gentlemen of this city having leisure for morning visits. Still 
every gentleman manages to honour a lady's reception day with at 
least one call during the season. I suppose you had no such things 
as morning receptions at the fort ?" 

"No, indeed," replied Sophia; "our mornings were always 
fully occupied in attending to household affairs, and doing the sew- 
ing of the family. Afternoon was the time for walking or reading. 
But in the evening we all visited our neighbours, very much 
according to the fashion of Spanish tertulias." 

Next morning, when dressed for the reception, and seated in the 
drawing-room to wait for the first arrivals, Mrs. Derrington said to 
Sophia — " We shall now hear all about Mrs. Cotterell's great party 
which came off last night. I have some curiosity to know what it 
was like, being her first since she came to live in this part of the 
town." 

"Do you visit her?" asked Sophia. 

" Oh, no — not yet — and probably I never may. I am waiting 
to see if the Cotterells succeed in getting into society." 

"What society, dear aunt?" inquired Sophia. 

" I see, Sophy, that I shall be much amused with your simpli- 
city," replied Mrs. Derrington ; " or rather with your extreme 
newness. In using the word society, we allude only to one class, 
and that of course is the very best." 

" By that I understand a select circle of intellectual, refined, 



34 ELIZA LESLIE. 

agreeable, and every way excellent people," said Sophia; "men on 
whose integrity, and women on whose propriety there is not the 
slightest blemish, and who are admired for their talents, loved for 
their goodness, and esteemed for the truth and honour of their 
whole conduct." 

"Stop — stop," interrupted Mrs. Derrlngton, "you are going 
quite too far. Can you suppose all this is required to get people 
into society, or to keep them there ? The upper circles would be 
very small if nothing short of perfection could be admitted." 

"What then, dear aunt, are the requisites?" asked Sophia. 
" Is genius one ?" 

" Genius ? Oh, no, indeed. It is not that sort of thing that 
brings people into society. It is mostly considered rather a draw- 
back. Mrs. Goldsworth actually shuns people of genius. Indeed, 
most of my friends rather avoid them. I have no acquaintance 
whatever with any man or woman of genius." 

"I am sorry to hear it," said Sophia. "I had hoped while in 
New York to meet many of those gifted persons whose fame has 
spread throughout our country, whom I already know by reputa- 
tion, and whom I have long been desirous of seeing or hearing." 

"Oh, I suppose you mean lions," said Mrs. Derrington. "I 
can assure you that I patronize none of them ; neither do any of 
my friends." 

"I thought the lions were the patronizers," said Sophia, "and 
that their position gave them the exclusive power of selecting their 
associates, and deciding on whom to confer the honour of their 
acquaintance." 

" Sophy — Sophy, you really make me laugh !" exclaimed her 
aunt. " What strange notions you have picked up, with your gar- 
rison education. Do not you know that people of genius seldom 
live in any sort of style, or keep carriages, or give balls ? And 
they never make fortunes ; unless they are foreign musicians or 
dancers, and I am not sure that the singing and dancing people are 
classed as geniuses. They are regarded as something much better." 

"Is society composed entirely of people of fortune?" 



ELIZA LESLIE. ;i5 

" Oh, no ; tliere are persons in the first circle v;\\o are not half 
so rich as many in the second, or even in the third, or fourth." 

" Then, if society is not distinguished for pre-eminence in talent 
or wealth, the distinction must depend upon the transcendent good- 
ness, and perfect respectability of those that belong to it." 

" Why, not exactly. I confess that some of the persons in soci- 
ety have done very bad things ; -which after the first few days it is 
best to hush up, for the honour of our class. But then in certain 
respects society is most exemplary. We always subscribe to public 
charities. Charity is very fashionable, and so is church." 

"And now," continued Sophia, " to return to the lady who gave 
the party last night. Is not she a good and respectable woman ?" 

"I never heard anything against her goodness, or her respect- 
ability." 

" She must surely be a woman of education." 

" Oh, yes ; I went to school with her myself. But at all schools 
there is somewhat of a mixture. To give you Mrs. Cotterell's his- 
tory — her father kept a large store in Broadway, and afterwards 
he got into the wholesale line, and went into Pearl street. Now, 
m^/ father was a shipping merchant, and owned vessels, and my 
dear late husband was his junior partner. Mr. Cotterell made his 
money in some sort of manufacturing business, across the river. 
He died two years ago, and is said to have left his family very rich.. 
Her daughter being now grown, Mrs. Cotterell has bought a house 
up here, in the best part of the town, and has come out quite in 
style, and been tolerably called on. Some went to see her out of 
curiosity ; and some because they have an insatiable desire for en- 
larging their circle ; some because they have a passion for new 
people ; and some because they like to go to houses where every- 
thing is profuse and costly, as is generally the case mth jjarvenus." 

"And some, I hope," said Sophia, "because they really like 
Mrs. Cotterell for herself." 

" She certainly is visited by a few very genteel people," con- 
tinued Mrs. Derrington, " and that has encouraged her to attempt 
a party last night. But the Goldsworths, the Highburys, the 
Featherstones, and myself, are waiting to hear if she is well taken 



86 ELIZA LESLIE. 

up; and, above all, if the Pelham Prideauxs have called on her. 
And besides, it may be well for us not to begin till she has gradu- 
ally gotten rid of the people with whom she associated in her hus- 
band's time." 

"Surely," said Sophia, "she cannot be expected to throw off 
her old friends?" 

" Then she need not expect to gain new ones up here. We can- 
not mix with people from the unfashionable districts. Mrs. Cotte- 
rell may do as she pleases — but she must be select in her circle, 
if she wants the countenance of the Pelham Prideauxs." 

"And who, dear aunt, are the Pelham Prideauxs?" inquired 
Sophia. 

" Is it possible you never heard of them ?" ejaculated Mrs. Der- 
rington. " To know Mrs. Pelham Prideaux, to be seen at her 
house, or to have her seen at yours, is sufficient. It gives the stamp 
of high fashion at once." 

"And for what reason?" persisted Sophia. 

"Because she is Mrs. Pelham Prideaux," was the reply. 

"What is her husband?" said Sophia. 

" He is a gentleman who has always lived upon the fortune left 
him by his father, who inherited property from his father, and he 
from his. None of the Prideauxs have done anything for a hun- 
dred years. The great-grandfather was from England, and came 
over a gentleman." 

"Surprising!" said Sophia, mischievously. "And whom have 
they to inherit all this glory?" 

"An only daughter," replied Mrs. Derrington, "Maria Matilda 
Pelham Prideaux." 

At this moment a carriage stopped at the door, and presently 
Mrs. Middleby was announced ; and immediately after, two young 
ladies came in who were presented to Sophia as Miss Telford and 
Miss Ellen Telford. The conversation soon turned on Mrs. Cotte- 
rell's party. Mrs. Middleby had been there — the Miss Telfords 
had not, and were therefore anxious to " hear all about it." 

"Really," said Mrs. Middleby, "it was just like all other par- 
ties ; and like all others, it went ^ff tolerably well. The company 



ELIZA LESLIE. 37 

was such as one meets everywhere. The rooms were decorated in 
the usual style. Some of the people looked better than others, and 
some worse than others. The dressing was just as it always is at 
parties. The hostess and her daughter behaved as people generally 
do in their own houses ; the company as guests usually behave in 
other people's houses. There was some conversation and some 
music. The supper was like all other suppers, and everybody went 
away about the usual hour." 

Mrs. Derrington was dubious about taking up the Cotterells. 

" I knew we should not get much information out of Mrs. Mid- 
dleby," said Miss Telford to Sophia, after the lady had departed. 
" She always deals in generals, whatever may be the topic of con- 
versation." 

" Because her capacity of observation is so shallow that it cannot 
take in particulars," said Ellen Telford. " But here comes Mrs. 
Honey wood — we will stay to hear what she says." 

Mrs. Honeywood was introduced, and on being applied to for her 
account of Mrs. Cotterell's party, she pronounced it every way 
charming; and told of some delightful people that were there. 
*' Among them," said Mrs. Honeywood, "was the dashing widow, 
Mrs. Crandon, as elegant and as much admired as ever. She was 
certainly the belle of the room, and looked even more captivating 
than usual, with her blooming cheeks, and her magnificent dark 
eyes, and her rich and graceful ringlets, and her fine tall figure set 
ofi" by her superb dress, giving her the air of a duchess, or a count- 
ess at least." 

" What was her dress ?" inquired Sophia. 

" Oh, a beautiful glossy cherry-coloured velvet, trimmed with a 
profusion of rich black lace. On her head was an exquisite dress- 
hat of white satin and blond, with a splendid ostrich plume. She 
was surrounded by beaux all the evening. The gentlemen almost 
neglected the young ladies to crowd round the enchanting widow, 
particularly when she played on the harp and sung. They would 
scarcely allow her to quit the instrument ; and, indeed, her music 
was truly divine. There was quite a scramble as to who should 
have the honour of leading Mrs. Crandon to the supper- table." 



38 ELIZA LESLIE. 

After some further encomiums on the "widow Crandon, and on 
everything connected with the party, Mrs. Honeywood took her 
leave, first offering seats in her carriage to the Miss Telfords, 
■which oifer they accepted. 

Mrs. Derrington rather thought she would take up the Cotterells. 

The next of the guests who had been at Mrs. Cotterell's party 
was Miss Rodwell ; and she also gave an account of it. 

" Mrs. Cotterell and her daughter are rather presentable, and 
they are visited to a certain degree," said Miss Rodwell; "and 
I understand that Mrs. Pelham Prideaux does think of calling on 
them. I knew that I should meet many of my friends, or of course, 
I could not have risked being there myself. But, under any cir- 
cumstances, the company was too large to be select. A party can- 
not be perfectly comme il faut, if it numbers more than fifty. 
Mrs. De Manchester says, that to have the very cream and flower 
of New York society, you must not go beyond thirty. And, though 
an Englishwoman, I think, in this respect, she is right." 

" The Yanbombels, to be completely select, invite none but their 
own relations," observed Mrs. Derrington. 

"And for the same reason," rejoined Miss Rodwell, "the 
Jenkses invite none of their relations at all. But who do you 
think I saw last evening ? Poor Crandon, absolutely ! I wonder 
where Mrs. Cotterell found her ? She must have been invited out 
of compassion ; it certainly could not have been for the purpose of 
ornamenting the rooms. Most likely Mrs. Cotterell did not know 
that poor Crandon is so entirely ^asse, nobody minds cutting her 
in the least. There she was rigged out in that old dingy red velvet 
that everybody was long ago tired of seeing. It is now quite too 
narrow for the fashion, and looks faded and threadbare. She had 
taken ofi" the white satin trimming that graced it in its high and 
palmy days, and decorated it scantily with some coarse brownish, 
blackish lace. And then her head, with its forlorn ringlets, stream- 
ing down with the curl all out, and a queer yellowish-white hat, 
and a meagre old feather to match ! Such an object ! I wish you 
could have seen her ! But, poor thing, I could not help pitying 
her, for she looked forlorn, and sat neglected, and was left to her- 



ELIZA LESLIE. 89 

self nearly all the time ; except when the Cotterells talked to her 
from a sense of duty. She played something on the harp, but 
nobody seemed to listen. I know that I was talking and laughing 
all the time, and so was every one else. People that are ill-dressed 
should never play on harps. It shows them too plainly." 

"And they should never go to parties either," said Mrs. Der- 
rington. " Poor Mrs. Crandon, has she no friend to tell her so ? 
But I never heard before that she had fallen off in her costume. 
The report may be true that her husband's executors have defrauded 
her of a considerable portion of her property. However, I have 
lost sight of her for some years." 

"And then," said Miss Rodwell, "it was not to be expected 
that Crandon could sustain herself permanently in society, con- 
sidering how she first got into it." 

"I own," resumed Mrs. Derrington, "I was rather surprised 
when I first saw Mrs. Crandon among us. It was, I believe, at 
Mrs. Hautonberg's famous thousand dollar party, the winter that 
it was fashionable to report the cost of those things ; so that, before 
the end of the season, parties had mounted up to twice that sum. 
How did she happen to get there, for it was certainly the cause of 
her having a run all that season ? I never exactly understood the 
circumstances." 

" Oh, I can tell you all about it," replied Miss Rodwell ; " for I 
was in the secret. Mr. Crandon was a jobber, and had realized a 
great deal of money, and they lived in a fine house, and made a 
show, but nobody in society ever thought of noticing them. After 
a while he took her to Europe, and they spent several months in 
Paris, and Mrs. Crandon (who, to do her justice, was then a very 
handsome woman) fitted herself out with a variety of elegant 
French dresses, made by an exquisite artiste, and with millinery 
equally recherche. When she came home, the fame of all these 
beautiful things spread beyond the limits of her own circle, and we 
were all dying to see them (particularly the evening costumes), and 
to borrow them as patterns for our own mantuamakers and milli- 
ners. But while she continued meandering about among her own 
set, we had no chance of seeing much more than the divine bonnet 



40 ELIZA LESLIE. 

and pelisse she wore in Broadway, and they only whetted our appe- 
tite for the rest. So at one of Mrs. Hautonberg's soirees, a coterie 
of us got together and settled the plan. Mrs. Hautonberg at first 
made some difficulty, but finally came into it, and agreed to com- 
mence operations by calling on Mrs. Crandon next day, and after- 
wards sending her a note for her great thousand dollar party, 
which was then in agitation. So she called, and Mr. Hautonberg 
was prevailed on to leave his card for Mr. Crandon. They came 
to the party, thinking themselves highly honoured, and we all made 
a point of being introduced to the lady, and of showing her all 
possible civility, and of being delighted with her harp-playing. 
You may be sure, we took especial note of all the minutiae of her 
dress, which I must say far excelled in taste and elegance every 
other in the room. And no wonder, when it was fresh from France. 
AVell, to be brief, she was visited and invited, and well treated, and 
her beautiful things were borrowed for patterns ; and by the time 
she had shown them all round at different parties, imitations of 
them were to be seen everywhere throughout our circle. The 
cherry-coloured velvet and the white hat and feathers were among 
them. She gave a grand party herself, and as it was at the close 
of the season, we all honoured her with our presence. Poor woman, 
she really thought all this was to last. Next winter we let her 
gently down ; some dropping her entirely, and a few compas- 
sionately dragging on with her a while longer. Indeed, I still meet 
her at two or three houses." 

" I am very sure she was never seen at Mrs. Pelham Prideaux," 
observed Mrs. Derrington, " even in the winter of her glory. Her 
French costumes would have been no inducement to Mrs. Prideaux, 
whose station has placed her far above dress." 

"Mrs. Prideaux is rather too exclusive," said Miss E-odwell, 
somewhat piqued. 

"What an enviable station !" remarked Sophia, "to be above 
dress." 

"Well," continued Mrs. Derrington, to Miss Rodwell, "what 
did you think of Mrs. Cotterell's party arrangements ? How were 
the decorations, the supper, and all things thereunto belonging ?" 



ELIZA LESLIE. 41 

" Oh ! just such as we always see in the best houses. x\ll in 
scrupulous accordance with the usual routine. Yet somehow it 
seemed to me there was a sort of parvenu air throughout." 

" What were the deficiencies ?" asked Mrs. Derrington. 

" Oh ! no particular deficiencies, except a want of that inde- 
scribable something which can only be found in the mansions of 
people of birth." 

Sophia could not forbear asking what in republican America could 
be meant by people of birth. To this Miss Rodwell vouchsafed 
no reply, but looking at her watch, said it was time to call for Mrs. 
De Manchester, whom she had promised to accompany to Stewart's. 
She then departed, leaving Mrs. Derrington impressed with a 
determination not to take up the Cotterells. 

The stopping of a carriage was followed by the entrance of Mrs. 
and Miss Brockendale. The mother was a lady with an ever-varying 
countenance, and a restless eye. She was expensively dressed, but 
with her hair disordered, her bonnet crushed, her collar crooked, 
her gown rumpled, one end of her shawl trailing on the ground, 
and the other end scarcely reaching to her elbow. Her daughter's 
very handsome habiliments were arranged with the most scrupulous 
nicety ; and the young lady had a steadfast eye, and a resolute and 
determined expression of face. All her features were regular, but 
the tout ensemble was not agreeable. 

After some very desultory conversation, Mrs. Derrington recur- 
red to the subject that was uppermost in her mind, Mrs. Cotterell's 
party ; and on finding that the Brockendale ladies had been there, 
she again inquired about it ; observing that much as she had heard 
of it in the course of the morning, she had still obtained no satis- 
factory account. " How did it really go off"?" said she, addressing 
Miss Brockendale ; but the mother eagerly answered, and the 
daughter finding herself anticipated, closed her lips firmly, and 
drew back her head. 

" Oh ! delightfully," exclaimed Mrs. Brockendale. " Everything 
was so elegant, and in such good taste, and on such a liberal 
scale." 

"How were the rooms decorated?" asked Mrs. Derrington. 

6 



42 ELIZA LESLIE. 

" Oil ! superbly, with flowers wreathed around the columns." 

"Mrs. Cotterell's rooms have no pillars," said Miss Brockendale, 
speaking very audibly and distinctly, and addressing herself to 
Sophia, near whom she was seated. 

"Well, then," continued Mrs. Brockendale, "there were wreaths 
festooned along the walls. You cannot say there were no walls." 

" There were no wreaths except those that ornamented the lamps 
and chandeliers," said Miss Brockendale, always addressing Sophia. 

" Oh ! yes, the flowers were all about the lights. That was what 
made them look so pretty. One thing I am certain of, the rooms 
were as light as day. There must have been five hundred candles." 

" There was not one," said Miss Brockendale to Sophia. " The 
rooms were lighted entirely with gas." 

" Well, it might have been a sort of gas. I declare my head is 
always so filled with things of importance, that I have no memory 
for trifles. This I know, that the furniture was all crimson velvet 
trimmed with gold-colour." 

" It was blue satin damask trimmed with a rich dark brown," 
said her daughter to Miss Fayland. 

" Well, the crimson might have had a bluish cast. I have cer- 
tainly seen crimson velvet somewhere. The truth is, almost as 
soon as we entered, I saw my friend Mr. Weston, the member of 
Congress (either from Greenbay or Georgetown, I forget which), 
and so we got to talking about Texas and things ; and that may be 
the reason I did not particularly notice the rooms. I almost got 
into a quarrel with this same Congress-man about the President, 
who, in spite of all I could say, Mr. Weston persisted in declaring 
has never threatened to go to war with Germany." 

"Neither he has," said Miss Brockendale, this time directing 
her looks to her mother. 

" Then he has set himself against railroads, or injured the crops, 
or invited over five hundred thousand millions of Irish." 

" He has done none of these things." 

" He has done something, I am very sure. Or, if he has not, 
some other President has. I never can remember how the Presi- 



ELIZA LESLIE. 43 

dents go, and perhaps I am ajot to mix them up, my head being 
always full of more important objects." 

"I hear there was a very elegant supper," said Mrs. Derring- 
ton. 

" I believe there was. But all supper-time I was talking about 
the tariff, and the theatre, and the army and navy, and I did not 
notice the things on the table. I rather think there was ice-cream, 
and I am almost positive there was jelly." 

" Had you fine music ?" inquired Mrs. Derrington. 

" It seems to me that I heard music. But I was talking then 
to Mr. Van Yalkenburgh, who has travelled over half the world ; 
mostly pedestrian, poor fellow !" 

"He is not a poor fellow," explained her daughter to Sophia. 
" He is a rich bachelor, and a great botanist, and entomologist ; 
and when he rambles on foot, it is always from his own choice." 

"Augustina," said her mother, "do not you recollect we met 
Mr. Van Valkenburgh somewhere in Europe, when we were travel- 
ling with the Tirealls ?" 

"I never was in Europe," said Augustina to Sophia. "When 
mamma went over, she took my sister Isabella, but left me a little 
girl at boarding-school." 

" So you ivere a little girl at boarding-school ; I remember all 
about it," continued Mrs. Brockendale, "and I did take Isabella, 
because she was grown up. She is married now, poor thing, to a 
man that never crossed the Atlantic, and never will, and so her 
going to Europe was of no manner of use. What a strange girl 
she was. When we were at Venice she would make me go every- 
where in a boat — even to church." 

"You could not well go in anything else," remarked Augustina. 

"And then at Venice, she highly offended the showman by ring- 
ing the great bell of St. Mark's." 

" She could not get at it." 

" Then it must have been at St. Peter's, or St. Paul's, or else 
Notre Dame. Any how, she rung a bell." 

"My sister has told me," said Augustina, turning to Sophia, 
" that coming out of a village church in England, she took a fancy 



44 ELIZA LESLIE. 

to pull the bell-rope, as it hung invitingly down just within the 
entrance ; and she greatly scandalized the beadle by doing so, still 
she pacified him with a shilling." 

"But now about Mr. Van Valkenburgh," proceeded Mrs. Brock- 
endale, " this I am certain of, that we met him on the Alps, and 
we were joined up there by old General Offenham and his son, who 
was much taken with Isabella. It might have been a match, for 
the young man will be a half-millionaire one of these days ; but he 
has fits, and rolls down mountains. So that rather discouraged us, 
and we thought that nobody would ever marry him. Yet, after- 
wards, at Paris, or Portsmouth, or some of those places, the widow 
Sweeting snapped up young Offenham, for her third husband. So 
Isabella might as well have taken him." 

"My sister," said Augustina, turning to Sophia, "is happily 
married to a man of sense, as well as of large fortune, and high 
respectability." 

"Mr. Van Valkenburgh," pursued Mrs. Brockendale, "was 
telling how delightful he found the literary society of England. I 
wish I had been in it, when I was there. He became acquainted 
with them all. He even knew Shakspeare." 

" His plays, of course," said Sophia. 

"Oh! no, the man himself. Shakspeare called on him at the 
hotel, and left his card for Mr. Van Valkenburgh." 

"Excuse me," said Sophia, "Shakspeare has been dead consi- 
derably more than two hundred years." 

"Ah! my dear young lady," observed Mrs. Brockendale, "you 
know we must not believe all we hear." 

"Mamma, we had best go home," said her daughter, who had 
sat for some moments looking as if too angry to speak, leaving to 
Sophia the explanation concerning Shakspeare. 

Mrs. Brockendale rose to depart. "If it was not Shakspeare 
that called on him, it must have been Dr. Johnson," said she. 
"Any how, it was some great author." 

They then took their leave, Miss Brockendale expressing a desire 
to be intimately acquainted with Miss Fayland. 

"Poor Mrs. Brockendale," said Sophia, "her head reminds me 



ELIZA LESLIE. 45 

of a lumber room, where all sorts of things are stowed away in 
confusion. My father thinks that a defective memory is generally 
the result of careless or inattentive observation. But perhaps this 
lady was never gifted with the capacity of seeing or hearing things 
understandingly . ' ' 

" I do not wonder that the daughter has no patience Avith the 
mother," said Mrs. Derrington. "However, they are persons of 
birth, and live handsomely, and are visited. We cannot expect 
everybody in society to be alike. Unfortunately, Mr. Brocken- 
dale, who was a most excellent man, and doated on his queer wife, 
and tried hard to improve her, died ten years ago, and since losing 
his guidance, she has talked more like a fool than ever. And 
worse than all, every article of her dress seems to be continually 
getting into disorder. As soon as her things are put right, they 
somehow get wrong again." 

The next visiters were two rather insipid ladies, and soon after 
came in a remarkably handsome young man, dressed in the most 
perfect taste, but without the slightest approach to what is called 
dandyism. He had the air distingue which foreigners say is so 
rarely to be found among the citizens of America. He was intro- 
duced to Sophia as Mr. Percival Grafton, and she thought he looked 
exactly like a young nobleman, or rather as a young nobleman ought 
to look ; and she was still more delighted with his conversation. 
After some very pleasant interchange of ideas with Miss Fayland, 
he inquired of Mrs. Derrington if she had yet become acquainted 
with Mrs. Cotterell and her charming daughter. 

"Not yet," was the reply. 

" Then let me advise you by all means not to delay what I am 
sure will afford much pleasure to yourself and Miss Fayland. The 
Cotterells are delightful people ; polished, intelligent, natural, and 
having Vair comine ilfaut, as if it had been born with them. Mis£ 
Cotterell is one of the loveliest girls I have ever seen ; and does 
infinite honour to the system on which her mother has educated 
her." 

"Does she dress well?" inquired Mrs. Derrington. 

"Charmingly," replied Grafton, "and she could not do other- 



m ELIZA LESLIE. 

wise, her good taste is so apparent in everything. She dresses 
well, talks well, moves well, and plays and sings delightfully. I 
heard her speaking French to Madame St. Ange, with the utmost 
fluency and elegance. She is really a most enchanting girl." 

"You seem to be quite smitten!" remarked Miss Waterly, one 
of the insipid young ladies. 

"Not to admire such a woman as Amelia Cotterell would evince 
the most pitiable insensibility to the united attractions of beauty, 
grace, and talent. But in the usual acceptation of the phrase, I am 
yet heart-whole. How long I may remain so is another question." 

Mr. Grafton then turned the conversation to another subject, and 
he soon after took his leave. 

"Do you know, Mrs. Derrington," said Miss Milkby, the other 
insipid young lady, "it's all over town already, that Percival 
Grafton is dying in love with Amelia Cotterell. So you must not 
believe exactly all he says about her and her mother." 

"He really seems delirious," said Miss Waterly. 

Mrs. Derrington became again dubious about taking up the Cot- 
terells. But her doubts grew fainter as she reflected that Percival 
Grafton was a young gentleman of acknowledged taste in all that 
was refined and elegant ; being himself a person of birth, and " to 
the manner born" of the best society. Even his grandfather was an 
eminent lawyer, and Percival himself had been inducted into that 
high profession. 

Wliile Mrs. Derrington sat, "pondering in her mind," Sophia 
was endeavouring to entertain the Misses Waterly and Milkby, 
when her aunt suddenly started from her reverie, and, her face 
beaming with ecstatic joy, advanced in eager empressement to 
receive a lady, whom the servant, throwing wide the door, an- 
nounced as Mrs. Pelham Prideaux. When Mrs. Derrington had a 
little recovered the first excitement of this supreme felicity, and 
placed her high and mighty guest in the easiest fauteuil, and seen 
her well served with refreshments, she recollected to introduce her 
niece. Miss Sophia Fayland. The two other misses had long been 
within the pale of Mrs. Prideaux's notice, and they timidly hoped 
she was well. 



ELIZA LESLIE. " 4^ 

This arbitress of fashion, this clictatress to society, was a woman 
of no particular face, no particular figure, no particular dress, and 
no particular conversation. But she was well aware of her position, 
and made use of it accordingly. 

Mrs. Derrington, whose whole morning had been one long thought 
of the Cotterells (whenever she had a new thought she always pur- 
sued it a V outrance), said something about the party of last night. 
" Were you there ?" asked Mrs. Prideaux. 
" Oh ! no. Mrs. Cotterell has come among us so lately, I know 
not exactly in what circle she will be." 

"You might have gone," said Mrs. Prideaux, "I intend calling 
on her." 

"Do you, indeed?" exclaimed Mrs. Derrington, with glad sur- 
prise. And Sophia's face brightened also ; for she longed to knoAV 
the Cotterells, and she saw that all doubt was now over. 

Miss Waterly and Miss Milkby now acknowledged that they had 
both been at the party, and that they had liked it. 

"When do you make this call, my dear Mrs. Prideaux?" asked 
Mrs. Derrington. 

"I have not exactly determined on the day," was the reply. 
" I hope Sophia and I may have the pleasure of meeting you 
there," said Mrs. Derrington. "When you have fixed on the 
exact time, will you let us know?" 

" Certainly, I can have no objection," answered Mrs. Prideaux, 
graciously, " provided I know it myself. 

" How kind you always are ! It will be so delightful for us to 
be at Mrs. Cotterell's together. Will it not, Sophy?" 

" On consideration, I cannot make this call before next week," 
said Mrs. Prideaux. 

" Oh ! never mind. Consult your own convenience. We will 
wait for you." 

"Where does Mrs. Cotterell live?" inquired the great lady. 
Miss Waterly and Miss Milkby now both spoke together, and 
designated the place. Mrs. Prideaux condescendingly thanked 
them for the information. 

"Then," said she to Mrs. Derrington, "as I must pass your 



48 ELIZA LESLIE. 

door in going there, I may as well call for you in my carriage, 
whenever 1 do go." 

Mrs. Derrington was too happy at this unexpected glory ; and 
Miss Waterly and Miss Milkby too envious. All these young 
ladies could do was to accompany Mrs. Prideaux when she departed, 
and be seen leaving the door at the same time with her. She hon- 
oured them with a bow as they lingered on the door-step, when her 
no-particular-sort-of-carriage drove away. Unluckily, there chanced 
to be no spectators but a small party of German emigrants, and 
two schoolboys. Perhaps some of the neighbours might have been 
at their windows. 

The following Monday and Tuesday, Mrs. Derrington and Miss 
Fayland stayed at home all the morning ready-dressed, waiting in 
vain for Mrs. Prideaux to call for them in her carriage. 

" Surely," said Sophia, "she will apprise us in time ?" 

"She may probably not think of doing so," replied Mrs. 
Derrington. 

At last on Wednesday the joyful moment arrived when the vehi- 
cle of Mrs. Pelham Prideaux, with that lady in it, drew up to the 
door of Mrs. Derrington, who ran down stairs, followed by her 
niece ; and in a very short time they arrived at the mansion of the 
Cotterells. 



CAEOLINE GILMAN. 



Op our living authoresses, no one tas been so long before the public, 
and at the same time retained her place so entirely in its affections, as 
Mrs. Caroline G-ilman. 

Her first publications, which were poems, commenced as early as 1810. 
Among these, " Jephthah's Rash Vow," and " Jairus' Daughter," attracted 
particular attention. Her importance as a prose writer begins with the 
*' Southern Rose Bud," a weekly juvenile paper, which she began in 1832, 
and continued for seven years. This miscellany contains a large amount 
of valuable literature, and is especially rich in contributions from Mrs. 
Grilman's own pen. Her other publications have been as follows : " Re- 
collections of a New England Housekeeper," '' Recollections of a Southern 
Matron" (both running through a large number of editions), " Ruth Ray- 
mond; or Love's Progress," " Poetry of Travelling," " Tales and Ballads," 
"Letters of Eliza Wilkinson" (written during the invasion of Charles- 
ton by the British), " Verses of a Lifetime," " The Oracles from the 
Poets," " The Sibyl," and several juvenile books, now collected under the 
general title of " Mrs. Gilman's Gift." 

The following graceful piece of autobiography will serve the double 
purpose of a specimen of her style, and a narrative of her life. 



MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

I AM asked for some "particulars of my literary and domestic 

life." It seems to me, and I suppose at first thought, it seems to 

all, a vain and awkward egotism to sit down and inform the world 

who you are. But if I, like the Petrarchs, and Byrons, and 

Hemanses, greater or less, have opened my heart to the public for 
7 (49) 



50 CAROLINE GILMAN. 

a series of years, with all the pulses of love and hatred and sor- 
row so transparently unveiled, that the throbs may be almost 
counted, why should I or they feel embarrassed in responding to 
this request ? Is there not some inconsistency in this shyness 
about autobiography? 

I find myself, then, at nearly sixty years of age, somewhat of a 
patriarch in the line of American female authors — a kind of Past 
Master in the order. 

The only interesting point connected with my birth, which took 
place October 8th, 1794, in Boston, Mass., is that I first saw the 
light where the Mariners' Church now stands, in the North Square. 
My father, Samuel Howard, was a shipwright, and to my fancy it 
seems fitting, that seamen should assemble on the former homestead 
of one who spent his manhood in planning and perfecting the noble 
fabrics which bear them over the waves. All the record I have of 
him is, that on every State thanksgiving day he spread a liberal 
table for the poor, and for this I honour his memory. 

My mother descended from the family of the Brecks, a branch 
of which is located in Philadelphia as well as in Boston, and which, 
by those who love to look into such matters, is traced, as far as I 
have heard, to 1703 in America. 

The families of 1794 in the North Square, have changed their 
abode. Our pastor, the good Dr. Lathrop, minister of the " Old 
North," then resided at the head of the Square — the Mays, 
Reveres, and others, being his neighbours. 

It appears to me, that I remember my baptism on a cold Novem- 
ber morning, in the aisle of the old North, and how my minister 
bent over me with one of the last bush-wigs of that century, and 
touched his finger to my befrilled little forehead : but being only 
five weeks old, and not a very precocious babe, I suppose I must 
have learned it from oral tradition. 

I presume, also, I am under the same hallucination, when I see 
myself, at two years of age, sitting on a little elevated triangular 
seat, in the corner of the pew, with red morocco shoes, clasped with 
silver buckles, turning the movable balusters, which modern archi- 
tects have so unkindly taken away from children in churches. 



CAROLINE GILMAN. 51 

My father died before I was three years old, and was buried at 
Copp's Hill. A few years since, I made a pilgrimage to that most 
ancient and interesting cemetery, but its grass-covered vaults 
revealed to me nothing of him. 

My mother, who was an enthusiastic lover of nature, retired into 
the country with her six children, and placing her boys at an aca- 
demy at Woburn, resided with her girls in turn at Concord, Ded- 
ham, Watertown, and Cambridge, changing her residence, almost 
annually, until I was nearly ten years old, when she passed away, 
and I followed her to her resting-place, in the burial-ground at 
North Andrews. 

Either childhood is not the thoughtless period for which it is 
famed, or my susceptibility to suffering was peculiar. I remember 
much physical pain. I recollect, and I think Bunyan, the author 
of Pilgrim's Progress, describes the same, a deep horror at dark- 
ness, a suffocation, a despair, a sense of injury when left alone at 
night, that has since made me tender to this mysterious trial of 
youth. I recollect also my indignation after a chastisement for 
breaking some china, and in consequence I have always been careful 
never to express anger at children or servants for a similar 
misfortune. 

In contrast to this, come the memories of chasing butterflies, 
launching chips for boats on sunny rills, dressing dolls, embroider- 
ing the glowing sampler, and the soft maternal mesmerism of my 
mother's hand, when, with my head reclined on her knee, she 
smoothed my hair, and sang the fine old song 
" In the downhill of life." 

As Wordsworth says in his almost garrulous enthusiasm, 

" Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up 
Fostered alike by beauty and by fear ; 
Much favoured in my birth-place." 

I say birth-place, for true life is not stamped on the spot where 
our eyes first open, but our mind-birth comes from the varied asso- 
ciations of childhood, and therefore may I trace to the wild influ- 
ences of nature, particularly to those of sweet Auburn, now the 
Cambridge Cemetery, the formation of whatever I may possess of 



52 CAROLINE GILMAN. 

the poetical temperament. Residing just at its entrance, I passed 
long summer mornings making thrones and couches of moss, and 
listening to the robins and blackbirds. 

The love of the beautiful then was quite undeveloped in social 
life ; the dead reposed by roadside burial-grounds, the broken stone 
walls of which scarcely sheltered the sod which covered them. 
Now all is changed in those haunts of my childhood, and perchance 
costly monuments in Mount Auburn have risen on the sites of my 
moss-covered thrones. 

Our residence was nearly opposite Governor Gerry's, and we 
were frequent visiters there. One evening I saw a small book on 
the recessed window-seat of their parlour. It was Gesner's Death 
of Abel ; I opened it, spelt out its contents, and soon tears began 
to flow. Eager to finish it, and ashamed of emotions so novel, I 
screened my little self so as to allow the light to fall only on the 
book, and, while forgotten by the group, I also forgetting the music 
and mirth that surrounded me, I shed, at eight years, the first pre- 
luding tears over fictitious sorrow. 

It was formerly the custom for countrypeople in Massachusetts 
to visit Boston in throngs on election day, and see the Governor 
sit in his chair on the Common. This pleasure was promised me, 
and a neighbouring farmer was good enough to offer to take me to 
my uncle Phillips's. Therefore, soon after sunrise, I was dressed 
in my best frock, and red shoes, and with a large peony called a 
'lection posey, in one hand, and a quarter of a dollar in the other, 
I sprang with a merry heart into the chaise, my imagination teeming 
with soldiers, and sights, and sugar-plums, and a vague thought of 
something like a huge giant sitting in a big chair, overtopping 
everybody. 

I was an incessant talker when travelling, therefore the time 
seemed short when I was landed, as I supposed, at my uncle Phillips's 
door, and the farmer drove away. But what was my distress at 
finding myself among strangers ! Entirely ignorant of my uncle's 
direction, I knew not what to say. In vain a cluster of kind ladies 
tried to soothe and amuse me with promises of playmates and toys; 
a sense of utter loneliness and intrusion kept me in tears. At 



CAROLINE GILM AN. , 53 

sunset, the good farmer returned for me, and I burst into a new 
agony of grief. I have never foi'gotten that long, long day -with 
the kind and hospitable, but ivrong PMllipses. If this statement 
should chance to be read and remembered by them, at this far 
interval, I beg them to receive the thanks which the timid child 
neglected to give to her stranger-friends. 

I had seen scarcely any children's books except the Primer, and 
at the age of ten, no poetry adapted to my age ; therefore, without 
presumption, I may claim some originality for an attempt at an 
acrostic on an infant, by the name of Howard, beginning — 

How STveet is the half opened rose ! 
Oh, how sweet is the violet to view! 
Who receives more pleasure from them, 

Here it seems I broke down in the acrostic department, and 
went on — 

Than the one who thinks them like you? 
Yes, yes, you're a sweet little rose, 
That will bloom like one awhile ; 
And then you will be like one still, 
For I hope you will die without guile. 

The Davidsons, at the same age, would, I suppose, have smiled 
at this poor rhyming, but in vindication of my ten-year-old-ship I 
must remark, that they were surrounded by the educational light 
of the present era, while I Avas in the dark age of 1805. 

My education was exceedingly irregular, a perpetual passing 
from school to school, from my earliest memory. I drew a very 
little, and worked the "Babes in the Woods" on white satin, in floss 
silk ; my teacher and my grandmother being the only persons who 
recognised in the remarkable individuals that issued from my hands 
a likeness to those innocent suiferers. 

I taught myself the English guitar at the age of fifteen from 
hearing a schoolmate take lessons, and ambitiously made a tune, 
which I doubt if posterity will care to hear. By depriving myself 
of some luxuries, I purchased an instrument, over which my whole 
soul was poured in joy and sorrow for many years. A dear friend, 
who shared my desk at school, was kind enough to work out all my 



54 . CAROLINE GIL MAN. 

sums for me (there were no black-boards then), while I wrote a 
novel in a series of letters, under the euphonious name of Eugenia 
Fitz Allen. The consequence is that, so far as arithmetic is con- 
cerned, I have been subject to perpetual mortifications ever since, 
and shudder to this day when any one asks me how much is seven 
times nine. 

I never could remember the multiplication table, and, to heap 
coals of fire on its head in revenge, set it to rhyme. I wrote my 
school themes in rhyme, and instead of following "Beauty soon 
decays," and " Cherish no ill designs," in B and C, I surprised my 
teacher with — 

"Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll, 
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul." 

My teacher, who at that period was more ambitious for me than 
I was for myself, initiated me into Latin, a great step for that 
period. 

The desire to gratify a friend induced me to study Watts's Logic. 
I did commit it to memory conscientiously, but on what an unge- 
nial soil it fell ! I think, to this day, that science is the dryest of 
intellectual chips, and for sorry quibblings, and self-evident propo- 
sitions, syllogisms are only equalled by legal instruments, for which, 
by the way, I have lately seen a call for reform. Spirits of Locke, 
and Brown, and Whewell, forgive me ! 

About this period I walked four miles a week to Boston to join 
a private class in French. 

The religious feeling was always powerful within me. I remem- 
ber, in girlhood, a passionate joy in lonely prayer, and a delicious 
elevation, when with upraised look, I trod my chamber floor, recit- 
ing or singing Watts's Sacred Lyrics. At sixteen I joined the 
Communion at the Episcopal Church in Cambridge. 

At the age of eighteen I made another sacrifice in dress to pur- 
chase a Bible with a margin sufficiently large to enable me to insert 
a commentary. To this object I devoted several months of study, 
transferring to its pages my deliberate convictions. 

I am glad to class myself with the few who first established the 



CAROLINE GILMAN. 55 

Sabbath School and Benevolent Society at Watertown, and to say 

that I have endeavoured, under all circumstances, wherever my lot 

has fallen, to carry on the work of social love. 

* * * * 

At the age of sixteen I wrote " Jephthah's Rash Vow." I was 
gratified by the request of an introduction from Miss Hannah 
Adams, the erudite, the simple-minded, and gentle-mannered author 
of the History of Religions. After her warm expressions of praise 
for my verses, I said to her, 

" Oh, Miss Adams, how strange to hear a lady, who knows so 
much, admire me !" 

"My dear," replied she, with her little lisp, "my writings are 
merely compilations, Jephthah is your own." 

This incident is a specimen of her habitual humility. 

To show the change from that period, I will remark, that when 
I learned that my verses had been surreptitiously printed in a news- 
paper, I wept bitterly, and was as alarmed as if I had been detected 
in man's apparel. 

The next effusion of mine was "Jairus's Daughter," which I 
inserted, by request, in the North American Review, then a 
miscellany. 

A few years later I passed four winters at Savannah, and 
remember still vividly, the love and sympathy of that genial 
community. 

In 1819 I married Samuel Gilman, and came to Charleston, 
S. C, where he was ordained pastor of the Unitai-ian Church 

In 1832, I commenced editing the "Rose Bud," a hebdomadal, 
the first juvenile newspaper, if I mistake not, in the Union. Mrs. 
Child had led the way in her monthly miscellany, to my apprehen- 
sion the most perfect work that has ever appeared for youth. The 
"Rose Bud" gradually unfolded through seven volumes, taking the 
title of the " Southern Rose," and being the vehicle of some rich 
literature and valuable criticism. 

From this periodical I have reprinted, at various times, the 
following volumes : 

" Recollections of a New England Housekeeper ;" " Recollections 



53 CAr.OLIXE GILMAN. 

of a Southern Matron;" " Rutli Eajmond, or Love's Progress;" 
"Poetrjof Trayelling in the United States;" "Tales and Bal- 
lads;" "Verses of a Lifetime;" "Letters of Eliza "Wilkinson, 
during the invasion of Charleston;" also, several volumes for 
youth, now collected in one, and recently republished, as "Mrs. 
Oilman's Gift Book." The "Poetry of Travelling," "Tales and 
Ballads," and "Eliza Wilkinson," are out of print. The " Oracles 
from the Poets," and "The Sibyl," which occupied me two years, 
are of later date. 

On the publication of the " EecoUections of a Xew England 
Housekeeper," I received thanks and congratulations from every 
quarter, and I attribute its popularity to the fact that it was the 
first attempt, in that particular mode, to enter into the recesses of 
American homes and hearths, the first unveiling of what I may call 
the altar of the Lares in our cuisine. 

I feel proud to say that a chapter in that work was among the 
first heralds of the temperance movement, a cause to Avhich I shall 
cheerfully give my later as well as earlier powers. 

My ambition has never been to write a novel; in the "Matron" 
and " Clarissa Packard" it will be seen that the story is a mere 
hinge for facts. 

After the publication of the "Poetry of Travelling," I opened 
to a notice in a review, and was greeted with, " This afiFectation will 
never do." It has amused me since to notice how "this afi"ecta- 
tion" has spread, until we have now the "Poetry of Teaching," 
and the " Poetry of Science." 

My only pride is in my books for children. I have never thought 
myself a poet, only a versifier ; but I know that I have learned the 
way to youthful hearts, and I think I have originated several styles 
of writing for them. 

TThile dwelling on the above sketch, I have discovered the difii- 
culty of autobiography, in the impossibility of referring to one's 
faults. Perchance were I to detail the personal mistakes and defi- 
ciencies of this long era, I might lose the sympathy which may 
have followed me thus far. 

I have purposely confined myself to my earlier recollections, 



CAROLINE GIL MAN. 57 

believing that my "writings will be the best exponents of my views 
and experience. It would be wrong, however, for me not to allude, 
in passing, to one subject which has had a potent influence on my 
life, I refer to mesmerism or magnetic psychology. This seemingly 
mysterious agency, has given me relief when other human aid was 
hopeless, and I believe it is destined, when calmly investigated, to 
be, under Providence, a great remedial agent for mankind. 

My Heavenly Father has called me to varied trials of joy and 
sorrow. I trust they have all drawn me nearer to him. I have 
resided in Charleston thirty-one years, and shall probably make my 
final resting-place in the beautiful cemetery adjoining my husband's 
church — the church of my faith and my love. 



SAEAH HALL. 



Mrs. Sarah Hall was born at Philadelphia, on the 30th of October, 
1761. She was the daughter of the Kev. John Ewing, D. D., who was, 
for many years. Provost of the University of Pennsylvania, and Pastor 
of the First Presbyterian Church at Philadelphia. 

At the close of the revolutionary war, in the year 1782, she was mar- 
ried to Mr. John Hall, the son of a wealthy planter in Maryland, to which 
State they removed. Here she spent about eight years, upon a beautiful 
farm on the shores of the Susquehanna. 

After their residence in Maryland, they settled in Philadelphia, where 
Mr. Hall filled successively the offices of Secretary o"f the Land Office, and 
Marshal of the United States, for the district of Pennsylvania. 

Endowed by nature with an ardent and lively imagination, she early 
imbibed a keen relish for the beauties of polite literature, and devoted 
much time to such pursuits. When the Port Folio was established by Mr. 
Dennie in 1800, she was one of the literary circle with which he associated, 
and to whose pens that work was indebted for its celebrity. Elegant litera- 
ture was at that time more successfully cultivated in Philadelphia than in 
any other part of the Union. To write for the Port Folio was considered 
no small honour; and to be among the favoured correspondents of Mr. 
Dennie was a distinction of some value, where the competitors were so 
numerous, and so highly gifted; for among the writers for that work 
were a number of gentlemen, who have since filled the most exalted 
stations in the Federal government, both in the cabinet and on the 
bench, and who have, in various ways, reaped the highest rewards of 
patriotism and genius. Some of the most sprightly essays and pointed 
criticisms which appeared in this paper, at the time of its greatest popu- 
larity, were from the pen of Mrs. Hall. 

When the Port Folio came under the direction of her son, the late 

(58) 



SARAH HALL. 59 

John E. Hall, who was its editor for more than ten years, she con- 
tinually aided him in his labours ; and her contributions may readily be 
distinguished, as well by their vivacity as the classic purity of their 
diction. She survived but a few months that son, her eldest, whom she 
had encouraged and assisted in his various literary labours for about 
twenty years. 

She studied the Scriptures with diligence, and with prayer — with all 
the humility of Christian zeal, and with all the scholar's thirst for acqui- 
sition. By such means, and with the aid of the best libraries of Phila- 
delphia, Mrs. Hall became as eminent for scholarship in this department 
of learning, as she was for wit, vivacity, and genius. Her " Conversa- 
tions on the Bible," a practical and useful book, which is now extensively 
known, affords ample testimony that her memory is entitled to this praise. 
This work is written with that ease and simplicity which belongs to true 
genius ; and contains a fund of information which could only have been 
collected by diligent research and mature thought. While engaged in 
this undertaking, she began the study of the Hebrew language, to enable 
herself to make the necessary critical researches, and is supposed to have 
made a considerable proficiency in the attainment of that dialect. When 
it is stated that she commenced the authorship of this work after she had 
passed the age of fifty, she being then the mother of eleven children, 
and that during her whole life she was eminently distinguished for her 
industry, economy, and exact attention to all the duties belonging to her 
station, as the head of a numerous family, it will be seen that she was no 
ordinary woman. 

In a letter to a literary lady in Scotland, written in 1821, Mrs. Hall 
makes the following remarks, which will be read with interest, as show- 
ing the change that has taken place in the last thirty years : — 

" Your flattering inquiry about my ' literary career' may be answered 
in a word — literature has no career in America. It is like wine, which, 
we are told, must cross the ocean to make it good. We are a business- 
doing, money-making people. And as for us poor females, the blessed 
tree of liberty has produced such an exuberant crop of bad servants, that 
we have no eye nor ear for anything but work. We are the most devoted 
wives, and mothers, and housekeepers, but every moment given to a book 
is stolen. The first edition of the ' Conversations' astonished me by its 
rapid sale ; for I declare to you, truly, that I promised myself nothing. 
Should the second do tolerably, I may perhaps be tempted to accede to 
the intimations of good-natured people, by continuing the history to the 
end of the Acts of the Apostles. Yet I found so much difficulty in the 
performance of the first part, having never written one hour without the 
interruption of company, or business, that I sent off my last sheet as 
peevishly as Johnson sent the Fiais of his Dictionary to Miller, almost 



60 SARAH HALL. 

vowing that I would never again touch a pen. In fact it is, as your friend 
says, ' She that would be a notable housewife, must be that thing only.'" 
Mrs. Hall died at Philadelphia, on the 8th of April, 1830, aged 69. A 
small volume containing selections from her miscellaneous writings, was 
published in Philadelphia, in 1833. This volume contains also an inter- 
esting sketch of her life, from which the present notice has been compiled. 



ON FASHION.* 

Most of you writers liave leaped into the censor's throne without 
leave or license ; where you were no sooner seated, than, with the 
impudence one might expect from such conduct, you have railed, 
with all the severity of satire and indecency of invective, against 
our folly, frivolity, forwardness, fondness of dress, and so forth. 
You can't conceive what a latitude is assumed by the witlings of 
the day, from the encouragement of such pens as yours. Those 
well dressed young gentlemen who will lay awake whole nights in 
carving the fashion of a new doublet, and who will criticise Cooper 
without knowing whether Shakspeare wrote dramas or epic poems, 
these wiseacres, I say, saunter along Chestnut street, Avhen the sun 
shines, and amuse themselves with sneers against our sex : and in 
nothing are we so much the object of their ridicule as in our devotion 
to fashion, on whose shrine, according to these modern peripatetics, 
we sacrifice our time, our understanding, and our health. We have 
freedom of the press, and freedom of religion, and why should we 
not enjoy a freedom of fashions ? 

What do these sapient gentlemen wush? Would they have a 
dress for females established by an act of the Assembly, as doctors 
of medicine have been created in Maryland ? " Which dress afore- 
said of the aforegoing figure, colour, materials, fashion, cut, make, 
&c., &c., all the good spinsters of Pennsylvania shall wear on all 
highdays and holydays, under pain, &c., &c." Horrible idea! — 
What ! tie us down to the dull routine of the same looks, the same 
bonnets, the same cloaks ? — take from us that charming diversity, 
that delightful variety, which blooms in endless succession from 

* Addressed to the editor of the Port Folio. 



SARAH HALL. 61 

week to week, with the changes of the season — make ns tedious to 
ourselves, and as unalterable and unattractable as an old family 
picture — or, what is equally out of the way and insipid, an old 
bachelor ? 

But some of you talk of simplicity of nature ; of the gewgaw 
display of artificial charms ; of deforming nature's works by the 
cumbrous and fantastical embellishments of art, and so forth. 
Now, sir, if you will pin the argument to this point, I shall have 
you in my power. Pray, is nature simple, barren, tedious, dull, 
uniform, and unadorned, as you old bachelors would have us to be, 
60 that we might resemble your comfortless selves ? Look at the 
trees — are they all of the same colour ? Are they not so infinitely 
diversified in their shades and figures, that, to an observing eye, 
no two are alike ? Observe the flowers of the garden : do they 
exhibit the same sombre or pale hue ? Do they present that dull 
simplicity which you recommend to us, whom your gravest philoso- 
phers allow to be the handsomest beings in creation ? Do you 
prefer the dull uniformity of a trench of upright celery to the 
variegated bed of tulips ? What would you say of a project to 
reform nature by robbing the rose of its blushing red, the lily of 
its silver lustre, the tulip of its gorgeous streaks, the violet of its 
regal purple, and allowing the vale to be no longer embroidered 
with their various beauties ? or, of blotting from the clouds their 
golden streaks and dazzling silver, and banishing the gay rainbow 
from the heavens, because they are not of a uniform colour, but 
for ever present more varieties and combinations of beauties than 
our imagination can paint ? And shall not we, who, at least, pre- 
tended, to have the use of reason, imitate nature ? Nature has 
given for our use the varied dyes of the mineral and vegetable 
world, which enables us almost to vie with her own splendid gild- 
ing. Nature made us to be various, changeable, inconstant, many- 
coloured, whimsical, fickle, and fond of show, if you please, and we 
follow nature with the greatest fidelity Avhen, like her, we use her 
beauties to delight the eye, gratify the taste, and employ the mind 
in the harmonious varieties of colour and figure to which fashion 
resorts, and to which we devote so much time and thought. 



62 SARAH HALL. 

Attend to these hints, and if you properly digest them, I have 
no doubt so sensible a head as you possess must nod assent to my 
doctrine, that to study fashion and be in the fashion is the most 
delightful and harmless employment upon earth, and the most con- 
formable to our nature. But if you should be so perverse as to 
think erroneously on this subject, I advise you to keep your obser- 
vations to yourselves, or to have your heads well wigged the next 
time you come amongst us. 



MARIA J. McINTOSH. 



The Clan Mcintosh is noted in the earliest Scottish history, as the leader 
in that powerful confederation known as the " Clan Chattan." This family 
sided with the House of Stuart in its last bold struggle for power, and the 
whole Highland force fought under its chief, Brigadier-General Mcintosh. 
With the defeat of the Royal family came the fall of their faithful adhe- 
rents and the confiscation of their property, and with one hundred and 
thirty Highlanders John Moore Mcintosh accompanied Oglethorpe's party, 
and settled on the Altamaha, in the district now called Georgia. 

The refugees carried with them their love for the fatherland, even to 
the names of its hills. They styled their frontier settlement New Inver- 
ness (since changed to Darien), and the county received, and still bears, 
the family title of Mcintosh. 

Colonel William Mcintosh, the son of the first settler of the new colony, 
fought as an officer in the French and Indian wars, and died leaving a son, 
Major Lachlan Mcintosh, who was the father of Miss Maria J. .Mcintosh, 
the subject of the present sketch. 

By profession Major Mcintosh was a lawyer, but with the readiness 
that warlike times engender, at the first summons of danger he stepped 
from the legal arena to the higher joust of arms, and fought, with the 
enthusiastic bravery of a Georgian, through all our revolutionary war. 

After the establishment of peace, he married a lady of the name 
of Maxwell, and settled in the practice of his original profession at 
Sunbury, Liberty county, in Georgia, where our author was born, 
and where she has spent the greater portion of her life. This place 
is a small village, beautifully situated at the head of a bay or long 
arm of the sea. The house of Major Mcintosh, a stately old mansion, 
commanded a full view of the water, and was, for years, a general 
gathering place for the gentry of the State. The remembrance of the 

(63) 



64 MARIA J. McINTOSH. 

generous hospitality, the faitliful adherents, the graceful society, and the 
luxuriant beauty of nature, that displayed itself in and around the family 
mansion, is still vivid in the mind of our author, and shows itself in the 
fervour and enthusiasm of her language whenever she writes of the land 
of her childhood. 

But the day-dreams of youth were doomed to a sad awakening. Miss 
Mcintosh, in 1835, after the death of both her parents, left her native 
place, to reside in New York, with her brother, James M. Mcintosh, of 
the U. S. Navy. With the change of residence came a change in the 
investment of her property. The whole of her ample fortune was vested 
in New York securities just previous to the commercial crisis of 1837, and 
the lady awoke from her life-dream of prosperity, in a strange city, totally 
bankrupt. 

By an almost universal dispensation of Providence, which ordains means 
of defence and support to the frailest formations of anitaal life, with the 
new station was granted a power of protection, of pleasure, and mainte- 
nance, unknown to the old. New feelings and powers came into life. 
Thoughts that before were scarcely formed, emotions that had never 
shaped themselves into expression, and ideas of the high and holy in life 
that had been hitherto unshapen dreams, suddenly attained a new growth. 
Hundreds of seeds that hung to the tree when all was sunshine, were 
shaken to the earth by the blast, watered by the storm, and sprung to a 
vigorous life, — until, at length, the very subject of misfortune blessed the 
evil that had been changed to a good. 

Two years after the loss of her property. Miss Mcintosh had completed 
her first work. It was a small volume, bearing the marks of a feeling, 
religious mind, and written in a pleasant, easy style, suitable for children, 
and bore the name of ^' Blind Alice." Few understand how sensitive is 
the anxiety of an author for his first work ; how he watches and criticises 
his dearest feelings when they are about to be made public property, and 
issued to the world. But how much greater must be this sensitive dread 
when the author is a woman, and a woman whose whole life and support 
are cast upon that one venture ? Miss Mcintosh had all these feelings to 
struggle with in their fullest strength, and, in addition, the delays and 
difiiculty of obtaining the publication of a work by a new writer. 

For two years the manuscript of this little volume lay alternately on 
the table of the author and the desk of the publishers. At last, in Janu- 
ary, 1841, it was issued anonymously. Its success was complete ; and 
with renewed energy the author resumed her pen, and finished and pub- 
lished in the summer of the same year '^ Jessie Graham," a work of similar 
size and character. " Florence Arnott," " Grace and Clara," and " Ellen 
Leslie," all of the same class and style, appeared successively, and at short 
intervals, the last being published in 1843. 

These works are generally known as "Aunt Kitty's Tales." They 



MARIA J. McINTOSH. 65 

were received with constantly increasing favour, as the series proceeded, 
and, after its completion, were republished in England with equal suc- 
cess. They are simple tales of American life, told in graceful and easy 
language, and conveying a moral of beauty and truthfulness that wins 
love at once for the fictitious character and the earnest writer. And 
many a girl, as she read of the charities of Harriet Armand, of Florence 
Arnott, and O'Donnel's cabin, and the nameless Aunt Kitty, who wove a 
moral with every pleasure, a lesson with every pain, and yet so secretly 
that the moral could never be discerned until the tale was finished, has 
laid down the book and wondered involuntarily who Aunt Kitty was. 

In the year 1844, she published " Conquest and Self-Conquest." This 
work is a fiction of a more ambitious character than any of the pre- 
ceding. The hero of the tale is a midshipman. One portion of the plot is 
laid in the city of Washington, another at sea. It is then changed to 
New Orleans, and again to the piratical island of Barrataria, on the 
Mexican coast. Frederick Stanley, the hero of the story, is made to feel 
that constant self-restraint will win self-command, and that self-command 
will rule his own happiness and the minds of others. 

In the same year appeared another work, entitled " Woman an 
Enigma." It is an attempt to delineate, not moral principles that are 
well defined — not religious duties, that are more easily depicted, — but the 
ideal, impalpable, varied substance of woman's love. This seems to be a 
natural ground for a woman to walk upon, when she has passed the days 
of girlhood, and arrived at such a distance from the scenes of passion as 
to look back with a calm eye on the rush of early thoughts. 

The first scene in the book opens in a convent in France, where young 
Louise waits upon a dying friend, and the friend leaves her ward as an 
affianced bride to her brother the Marquis de Montrevel. 

The vow is duly made between the noble courtier and the trusting girl. 
Louise is then taken to Paris by her parents and introduced to fashionable 
life, with its gayeties and seductions, while the Marquis is absent on his 
estate. The new world of pleasure has no effect on the novice, save so far 
as it stimulates her to excel, that she may the more be worthy of her hus- 
band's love. She mingles in the dance to acquire grace, in the soiree to 
learn the styles of fashionable life, and all for the sole purpose of being 
the better fitted to be the companion and wife of the high-born noble. 
But the absent lover hears of the brilliant life of his so lately timid girl, 
and, ignorant of the mighty power that impels her to the exertion, scorns 
the supposed fickleness that will give to the many that regard which he 
had hoped to have won exclusively for himself. 

Then follows the portion of the work which most perfectly pictures the 
author's ideas of womanly love. The earnest toil of the poor girl for the 
pittance of a smile that is rewarded by jealousy with a sneer; the pas- 
9 



66 MARIA J. McINTOSH. 

sionate pride of the wounded woman ; the stern sorrow of the man ; and 
the final separation, are all true to the instincts of that master feeling. 

In 1845 appeared " Praise and Principle/' a fiction of the same size as 
the others just named. 

The hero of the story, Frank Derwent, is an American boy, and is intro- 
duced to the reader while at school. Having opposed the only relative from 
whom he could hope for assistance, he is thrown wholly on his own re- 
sources, yet by the practice of great self-denial, by energy and a steadfast 
adherence to truth and principle, he attains a high position as a lawyer, and 
wins the hand of a fair client. The foil to this character is Charies Ellersby, 
a school companion of Frank, and a competitor in the world for the praise 
that Frank discards for the love of the dearer right. Frank wins an hon- 
ourable name and a happy home, while Charies receives, as a bitter punish- 
ment, that curse of manhood, a fashionable wife,— and in a year is ruined. 
The whole work illustrates the character of the author, and her constant 
endeavour to write not so much for the entertaining powers of the tale, 
which is for a day, but for the inner life of the story, that is for all time. 
" The Cousins, a Tale for Children," appeared in the latter part of the 
same year. This is a small volume, originally written for the series of 
Aunt Kitty's Tales, and is the last work she has published anonymously. 
In 1847 was published " Two Lives, or To Seem and To Be," and with 
it the name of the author, who had heretofore been unknown. The suc- 
cess that it won may be estimated by the fact that it reached a seventh 
edition in less than four years from its publication. 

In 1848 appeared " Charms and Counter Charms," a work of greater 
size and power, and on the most complex plan of any yet written by our 
author, and received with so great favour that it is already in its sixth 

edition. 

■ Miss Mcintosh here treats of a subject that woman seldom attempts, 
and the bearing of the tale is mainly on this one point; namely, the neces- 
sity of the marriage rite not only for the morality of the worid, but for 
the morality, happiness, fidelity, and religion of any individual couple. 

Euston Hastings, the hero of the story, a man somewhat on the 
Byronic order, whom having seen you turn to watch, scarcely knowing 
why, wins and marries a young giri, Evelyn Beresford. But before the 
marriage, and after the engagement, he declares to the lady of his choice 
his so-called liberal views on the subject of religion. 

Not long after, Evelyn asks his views in regard to marriage. The man 
of the world replies — , 

" I answer you with confidence, because I know such is your aflinity 
with purity and truth that you will discover them though they appear in 
forms which conventionalism condemns; and I tell you, without disguise, 
that I think marriage unnecessary to secure fidelity where there is love, 
and insufficient where there is not." 

The revelation of these foreign views does not, however, alienate the 



MARIA J. Mcintosh. 67 

woman's heart, and Evelyn is soon bound to her husband by the same 
holy tie that he considers a conventional form. 

But Evelyn loves with an engrossing passion. With a strength of feel- 
ing that demands a constant return, and forgetting the hundred busy 
things that are calling a man's attention, she desires the whole time and 
the whole regard of her husband. This selfish, exclusive love, that 
engrosses the object when it submits, and is thrown into tears when it 
does not, produces the natural consequence on a man to whom perfect 
liberty is an accustomed right. He seeks for the regard from other per- 
sons, that he cannot receive from his wife without a corresponding degree 
of personal restraint. This course produces another result on Evelyn. 
She feels wounded and becomes reproachful. Instead of winning him by 
her charms, she calls him to her society by her rights, until at last 
Hastings leaves secretly for Europe, and is supposed to have fled with 
another lady. 

The blow falls fearfully heavy on one who had centred all her hopes on 
the dearly loved husband. Everything is forgotten but her mighty love, 
and she follows him abroad. A valet accompanying leads her to Rome, 
and she meets her husband. He is struck by her devotion and the wrongs 
he has inflicted. He provides her a house and every attention, and they 
reside together happy in the love which is at last acknowledged above 
every consideration. But it is on this express agreement, that Evelyn is 
not to be known as his wife, and that they are free to part whenever either 
of them may choose. 

Hastings has the liberty that he so dearly prizes, and Evelyn the lover 
that she regards more than all the world besides. 

It is in this curious relation that the power of the writer is shown. The 
most ultra case is taken upon which to build the argument for the holiness 
of the marriage vow. A couple are duly married, and the marriage is 
made public to all the world. They live together for a time as man and 
wife. They are then separated, and again come together, not on the 
strength of the marriage rite, but only on their mutual love. 

But does this new connexion produce the happiness to Evelyn that she 
desired ? On the contrary, there is a sense of wrong in every pleasure. 
She looks at her own servants with shame } and between her and every 
flower she touches, every kiss she receives, there seems springing up a 
consciousness of guilt. 

At length Hastings is taken ill, and lies unconscious and near to death. 
Evelyn watches by his side with tearful fidelity, and in agony unutterable 
attends him through the dark valley, and at length sees him recovering 
with feelings of joy and childlike happiness 

But during the course of this weary illness she is made to see the right 
way, even amid the darkness by which she had been surrounded ; and, 
when Euston has entirely recovered his health, the young wife (though 



68 MARIA J. McINTOSH. 

not bearing the name) flees from the land of beauty and the arms of her 
lover, in an agony of grief, leaving behind her a letter explaining her 
change of vievrs and the cause of her departure. 

At last, in the heart of the sensualist, the crust of worldliness is broken 
up, and Euston Hastings, roused from the guilty selfishness of his life, 
leaves Rome to seek the wife who has become his all in the world. He 
finds her in Paris, and they are again united, not by any wavering passion, 
but by holy love and marriage, which gains a higher beauty from the 
bright faith and exquisite description of its able defender. 

This work, though a high-wrought tale of fiction, is really an exposition 
of a theory, and the reader frequently finds himself laying aside the book 
to think. Is that theory really so ? and finds that, after the work is read, 
there is within the fabric of the tale, an inner temple of right and wrong; 
where are engraven principles that are pervading his memory equally, if 
not more constantly than the plot of the fiction. 

" Woman in America ; Her Work, and Her Reward," the next succeed- 
ing work in the order of publication, was issued in 1850. 

In this work, the author, apparently tired of teaching only through the 
medium of fiction, addresses herself to reasoning and argument. We read 
here the ideas of a religious woman, well acquainted with all grades of 
American society, in an earnest tone denouncing the servility of her sex 
to the rules of fashion and opinion, modelled not by the good and virtuous, 
but by the dissolute societies of Europe, and forms and customs made not 
after the model of a naturally honest, or even commonly virtuous ideal, 
but copied after the ever-changing, never true, leader of some dissolute or 
fastidious circle — it may be, of Paris, it may be of Saratoga. The only 
rule that seems never to have changed among this class of people until it 
is embodied in their social confession of faith, is " Money makes the man." 
Mahogany doors are closed to the gentleman-labourer, that are flung wide 
open to him when he becomes a millionaire. White arms are outstretched 
to the banker, that are folded in scorn to his approach when a bankrupt. 

" Evenings at Donaldson Manor," was published as a Christmas Guest, 
for the year 1850. It was a collection of tales that had appeared at dif- 
feren't times in periodicals. 

" The Lofty and the Lowly" is a work depicting the peculiar social 
characteristics of the North and South. It has had a large sale both in 
this country and in England. 

It will be obvious to every one familiar with Miss Mcintosh's writings, 
that she is a delineator entirely of mental life. The physical in man, in 
animals, and nature, is never used, except so far as is necessary to bring 
forward the mind and its virtues, desires, and principles. She has appa- 
rently excluded from her attention everything that did not absolutely 
belong to the moral life. 



MARIA J. McINTOSH, (39 

Evelyn and Euston live for a summer on the Tiber, but not the faintest 
tinge of the golden light, or the lowest breath of Roman air enters within 
their villa. 

Hubert Falconer builds a frontier cottage, but he never listens to the 
sighing pines, or treads the forest aisles. 

Mind, with its wayward creeds, can alone be seen in the Imperial City. 
Feelings right and wrong, and promises faithfully performed are more to 
Hubert than earth, air, and water, and the glorious gifts of Nature. 

Miss Mcintosh still further restricts herself in the characters of her 
story, and selects only the common ones of practical life, as though anx- 
ious for the principle alone, and the fiction that would draw the reader off 
from the moral is discarded. In her quiet pages there never occurs the 
extreme either of character or passion. It is only the system of con- 
science — the rule of right — the law of God that is portrayed, and the 
more marked characters, or the more easily delineated beauties and feel- 
ings of life and nature are left with a rigid indifference to those whose 
design is to please more than to instruct. 

Yet the reader, when the book is closed, and he has gone to his daily 
labour, or mingles in social life, finds lingering in his brain, and warming 
in his heart, a true principle of honour and love that is constantly con- 
trasting itself with the hollow forms by which he is surrounded, and if he 
fails to bear himself up to that high ideal of principle which he feels to 
be true, he still walks a little nearer to his conscience and his God, and 
long after the volume is returned to the shelf and forgotten, a kindly 
benediction is given to the noble influence it incited. 

And thus will it be with the author that lives in the hearts and not in 
the fancy of her readers. And long after she is returned to the great 
library of the unforgotten dead, a blessing wide as her language, and fer- 
vent as devotion, will descend on the delineator of those lofty principles 
that showed the nobleness of simplicity, and the holiness of truth. 

The extract which follows is from ''Woman in America." 



TWO PORTRAITS. 

Permit us, in illustration of our subject, to place before you a 
sketcli of an American woman of fashion as she is and as she might 
be — as she must be to accomplish the task we would appoint her. 
Examine with a careful eye "the counterfeit presentment" of these 
two widely differing characters, and choose the model on which you 
will form yourselves. And first, by a few strokes of this magic 
wand — the pen — we will conjure within the charmed circle of your 
vision, the woman of fashion as she is. 



70 MARIA J. McINTOSH. 

Tlirtilla, — for so noted a cliaracter must not Tvant a name, — may 
well be pronounced a favourite of nature and of fortune. To the 
fii'st she owed a pleasmg person and a mind which offered no unapt 
soil for cultivation ; by favour of the last, she was born the heiress 
to wealth and to those advantages which wealth unquestionably 
confers. Her childhood was carefully sequestered from all vulgar 
influences, and she was early taught, that to be a little lady was 
her higliest possible attainment. At six years old she astonished 
the elite assembled in her father's halls, and even dazzled the larger 
assemblages of Saratoga by her grace in dancing and by the ease 
with which she conversed in French, which, as it was the language 
of her nursery attendants, had been a second mother-tongue to her. 
At the fashionable boarding-school, at which her education was, 
in common parlance, completed, she distanced all competitors for 
the prizes in modern languages, dancing, and music; and acquired 
so mucli acquaintance with geography and history as would secure 
her from mistaking Prussia for Persia, or imagining that Lord 
Wellington had conquered Julius Csesar — in other words, so much 
knowledge of them as would guard her from betraying her igno- 
rance. To these acquirements she added a slight smattering 
of various natural sciences. All these accomplishments had nearly 
been lost to the world, by her forming an attachment for one of 
fine qualities, personal and mental, who was entirely destitute of 
fortune. From the fatal mistake of yielding to such an attachment 
she was preserved by a judicious mother, Avho placed before her in 
vivid contrast the commanding position in which she would be 
placed as the wife of Mr. A — , with his houses and lands, his bank 
stock and magnificent equipage ; and the mediocre station she would 
occupy as Mrs. B — , a station to which one of her aspiring mind 
could not readily succumb, even though she found herself there in 
company with one of the most interesting and agreeable of men. 
Relinquishing with a sigh the gratification of the last sentiment 
that bound her to nature and to rational life, she magnanimously 
sacrificed her inclinations to her sense of duty, and became Mrs. 
A — . From this time her course has been undisturbed by one 
faltering feeling, one wavering thought. She has visited London 



MAKIAJ. McINTOSH. 71 

and Paris, only that slie might assure herself that her house pos- 
sessed all which was considered essential to a genteel establishaient 
m the first, and that her toilette was the most recherche that could 
be obtained in the last. She laughs at the very idea of wearing 
anything made in America, and is exceedingly merry over the por- 
traitures of Yankee character and Yankee life occasionally to be 
met in the pages of foreign tourists, or to be seen personated in 
foreign theatres. She complains much of the promiscuous charac- 
ter of American society, dances in no set but her own, and, in 
order to secure her exclusiveness from contact with the common 
herd, moves about from one point of fashionable life to another, 
attended by the same satellites, to whom she is the great centre of 
attraction. Her manners, like her dresses, are imported from 
Paris. She talks and laughs very loudly at all public j)laces, lec- 
tures, concerts, and the like; and has sometimes, even in the house 
of God, expressed audibly her assent with or dissent from the 
preacher, that she may prove herself entirely free from that shock- 
ingly American mauvaise honte, which she supposes to be all that 
keeps other women silent. Any gentleman desiring admission to 
her circle must produce authentic credentials that he has been 
abroad, must wear his mustaches after the latest Parisian cut, must 
interlard his bad English with worse French, and must be familiar 
with the names and histories of the latest ballet-dancers and opera- 
singers who have created a fever of excitement abroad. To foreign- 
ers she is particularly gracious, and nothing throws her into such a 
fervour of activity as the arrival in the country of an English Lord, 
a German Baron, or a French or Italian Count. To draw such a 
character within her circle she thinks no effort too great, no sacri- 
fice of feeling too humiliating. 

It may be objected that all our descriptions of the fashionable 
woman as she is, relates to externals ; that of the essential charac- 
ter, the inner life, we have, in truth, said nothing. But what can 
we do ? So far as we have yet been able to discover, this class is 
destitute of any inner life. Those who compose it live for the 
world and in the world. Home is with them only the place in 
■which they receive visits. We acknowledge that few in our country 



72 MARIA J. McINTOSH. 

have yet attained to so perfect a development of fashionable cha- 
racter as "we have here described; but to some it is already an 
attainment ; to many — we fear to most, young women of what are 
called the higher classes in our large cities — it is an aim. 

Nobler spirits there are, indeed, among us, of every age and every 
class, and from these we must choose our example of a woman of 
fashion as she should be. On her, too, we will bestow a name — 
a name associated with all gentle and benignant influences — the 
name of her who in her shaded retreats received of old the ruler of 
earth's proudest empire, that she might "breathe off with the holy 
air" of her pure affection, "that dust o' the heart" caught from 
contact with coarser spirits. So have we dreamed of Egeria, and 
Egeria shall be the name of our heroine. Heroine indeed, for heroic 
must be her life. With eyes uplifted to a protecting Heaven, she 
must walk the narrow path of right, — a precipice on either hand, — 
never submitting, in her lowliness of soul, to the encroachments of 
the selfish, and eager, and clamorous crowd, — never bowing her 
own native nobility to the dictation of those whom the world styles 
great. "Resisting the proud, but giving grace unto the humble," 
if we may without irreverence appropriate to a mortal, words 
descriptive of Him whose unapproachable and glorious holiness we 
are exhorted to imitate. 

In society, Egeria is more desirous to please than to shine. Her 
associates are selected mainly for their personal qualities, and if 
she is peculiarly attentive and deferential to any class, it is to 
those unfortunates whom poverty, the accidents of birth, or the 
false arrangements of society, have divorced from a sphere for 
which their refinement of taste and manner and their intellectual 
cultivation had fitted them. Admission to her society is sought as 
a distinction, because it is known that it must be purchased by 
something more than a graceful address, a well-curled mustache, 
or the reputation of a travelled man. At her entertainments, you 
will often meet some whom you will meet nowhere else ; some promis- 
ing young artist, yet unknown to fame, — some who, once standing 
in the sunshine of fortune, were well known to many whose vision 
is too imperfect for the recognition of features over which adversity 



MARIA J. McINTOSH. 73 

has thrown its shadow. The influence of Egeria is felt through the 
whole circle of her acquaintance; — she encourages the young to 
high aims and persevering efforts, — she brightens the fading light 
of the aged, but above all is she a blessing and a glory within her 
own home. Her husband cannot look on her — to borrow Longfel- 
low's beautiful thought — without "reading in the serene expression 
of her face, the Divine beatitude, 'Blessed are the pure in heart.' " 
Her children revere her as the earthly type of perfect love. They 
learn, even more from her example than her precept, that they are 
to live not to themselves, but to their fellow-creatures, and to God 
in them. She has so cultivated their taste for all which is beautiful 
and noble, that they cannot but desire to conform themselves to 
such models. She has taught them to love their country and 
devote themselves to its advancement — not because it excels all 
others, but because it is that to which God in his providence united 
them, and whose advancement and true interest they are bound to 
seek by all just and Christian methods. In a word, she has never 
forgotten that they are immortal and responsible beings, and this 
thought has reappeared in every impression she has stamped upon 
their minds. 

But it is her conduct towards those in a social position inferior 
to her own, which individualizes most strongly the character of 
Egeria. Remembering that there are none who may not, under 
our free institutions, attain to positions of influence and responsi- 
bility, she endeavours, in all her intercourse with them, to awaken 
their self-respect and desire for improvement, and she is ever ready 
to aid them in the attainment of that desire, and thus to fit them 
for the performance of those duties that may devolve on them. 

"Are you not afraid that Bridget will leave you, if, by your 
lessons, you fit her for some higher position?" asked a lady, on 
finding her teaching embroidery to a servant who had shown much 
aptitude for it. 

" If Bridget can advance her interest by leaving me, she shall 
have my cheerful consent to go. God forbid that I should stand 
in the way of good to any fellow-creature — above all, to one whom, 

10 



74 MARIAJ. McINTOSH. 

by placing her under my temporary protection, he has made it 
especially my duty to serve," was her reply. 

In the general ignorance and vice of the population daily pour- 
ing into our country from foreign lands, Egeria finds new reason 
for activity, in the moral and intellectual advancement of all who 
are brought within her sphere of influence. 

Egeria has been accused of being ambitious for her children. 
"I am ambitious, for them," she replies; "ambitious that they 
should occupy stations that may be as a vantage-ground from which 
to act for the public good." 

Notwithstanding this ambition, she has, to the astonishment of 
many in her own circle, consented that one of her sons should 
devote himself to mechanical pursuits. She was at first pitied for 
this, as a mortification to which she must certainly have been com- 
pelled, by her husband's singular notions, to submit. 

"You mistake," said Egeria, to one who delicately expressed 
this pity to her ; " my son's choice of a trade had my hearty con- 
currence. I was prepared for it by the whole bias of his mind 
from childhood. He will excel in the career he has chosen, I have 
no doubt ; for he has abilities equal to either of his brothers, and 
he loves the object to which he has devoted them. As a lawyer or 
physician he would, probably, have but added one to the number 
of mediocre practitioners who lounge through life with no higher 
aim than their own maintenance." 

"But then," it was objected, "he would not have sacrificed his 
position in society." 

Egeria is human, and the sudden flush of indignation must have 
crimsoned the mother's brow at this ; and somewhat of scorn, we 
doubt not, was in the smile that curled her lip as she replied, " My 
son can afford to lose the acquaintance of those who cannot appre- 
ciate the true nobility and independence of spirit which have made 
him choose a position off'ering, as he believes, the highest means of 
development for his own peculiar powers, and the greatest probabi- 
lity, therefore, of his becoming useful to others." 

Our sketches are finished — imperfect sketches we acknowledge 
them. It would have been a labour of love to have rendered the 



MARIA J. arc IN TOSH. 75 

last complete — to have followed the steps of Egeria — the Christian 
gentlewoman — through at least one day of her life ; to have shown 
her embellishing her social circle by her graces of manner and 
charms of conversation, and to haA^e accompanied her from the 
saloons which she thus adorned, to more humble abodes. In these 
abodes she was ever a welcome as well as an honoured guest, for 
she bore thither a respectful consideration for their inmates, which 
is a rarer and more coveted gift to the poor than any wealth can 
purchase. Having done this, we would have liked to glance at her 
in the tranquil evening of a life well spent, and to contrast her 
then with Flirtilla — old beyond the power of rouge, false teeth, and 
false hair, to disguise — still running through a round of pleasures 
that have ceased to charm, — regretting the past, dissatisfied with the 
present, and dreading the future, — alternately courting and abusing 
the world, which has grown weary of her. 



LYDIA H. SIGOUENEY. 



Justice has hardly been done to Mrs. Sigourney as a prose writer. 
She has been so long, and is so familiarly, quoted as a poet, that the 
public has in a measure forgotten that her indefatigable pen has sent forth 
almost a volume of prose yearly for more than a quarter of a century — 
that her prose works already issued number, in fact, twenty-five volumes, 
averaging more than two hundred pages each, and some of them having 
gone through not less than twenty editions. She has indeed produced no 
one work of a thrilling or startling character, wherewith to electrify the 
public mind. Her writings have been more like the dew than the light- 
ning. Yet the dew, it is well to remember, is not only one of the most 
beneficent, but one of the most powerful of nature's agents — far more 
potential in grand results than its brilliant rival. When account shall be 
made of the various agencies, moral and intellectual, that have moulded 
the American mind and heart during the first half of the nineteenth cen- 
tury, few names will be honoured with a larger credit than that of Lydia 
H. Sigourney. 

The maiden name of this most excellent woman was Lydia Howard 
Huntley. She was born in Norwich, Connecticut, September 1st, 1791, 
of Ezekiel and Sophia Huntley. Being an only child, she was nurtured 
with special care and tenderness. But, besides the ordinary parental 
influences, there was in her early history one circumstance of a peculiar 
character, which, according to the testimony of those who have known her 
best, contributed largely and most happily to the moulding of her mind 
and heart. I refer to the remarkable intimacy that existed between the 
gifted and brilliant young girl and an aged lady that lived for many years 
in the same house. Madam Jerusha Lathrop, the lady referred to, was 
the relict of Dr. Daniel Lathrop, and daughter of Joseph Talcot, one of 
the Provincial Governors of Connecticut. 

Madam Lathrop is reported to have been gifted by nature with strong 

(76) 



LYDIA.H. SIGOURNEY. T7 

powers of mind, and a dignity of person and manners that commanded 
universal respect. Her character had been matured by intercourse with 
men of powerful intellect, and by participation in great and trying scenes. 
The parents of Mrs. Sigourney resided under the roof of Madam Lathrop, 
who had been bereft of her husband and children, and though the house- 
holds were separate, the latter manifested from the first a tender solicitude for 
their infant daughter. As the mind of the child began to unfold itself, and 
to give promise of future richness and depth, the attachment became mutual, 
and in a few years an enduring confidence, an almost inseparable companion- 
ship, was established between the little maiden of six and the venerable 
woman of eighty. 

The following glimpse into the chamber of Madam Lathrop is from 
one entirely conversant with the subject. For its substantial correctness 
as to fact, we are permitted to quote the authority of Mrs. Sigourney her- 
self. It is quoted, not only as a beautiful episode in human life, but also 
as afi'ording a key to some of the most charming peculiarities of Mrs. 
Sigourney's writings. 

" Methinks we stand upon that ancient threshold ; we enter those low- 
browed, but ample rooms; we mark the wood-fire gleaming upon crimson 
moreen curtains, gilded clock, ebony-framed mirror, and polished wainscot; 
but what most engages our attention, is the venerable occupant and her 
youthful companion. There sits the lady in her large arm-chair, and the 
young friend beside her, with face upturned, and loving eyes fixed on that 
beaming countenance. We can imagine that we hear, in alternate notes, 
the quick, gushing voice of childhood, and the tremulous tones of age, as 
question and reply are freely interchanged. And now we are startled, as 
the tremulous voice unexpectedly recovers strength and fulness, and 
breaks forth into some wild or pathetic melody — the ballad or patriotic 
stanza of former days. The young auditor listens with rapt delight, and 
now, as the scene changes, with light breath and glowing aspect, she sits 
attentive to the minute and lively details of some domestic tale of truth, 
or striking episode of our national history — treasuring up the diamond- 
dust, to be fused hereafter, by her genius, into pellucid gems. As night 
closes round, and the light from the two stately candlesticks glimmers 
through the room, the lady takes the cushioned seat in the corner, and 
the young inmate spreads out upon the table some well-kept, ancient 
book, often perused, yet never found wearisome ; and beguiles, with inces- 
sant reading, all too mature for her years, the long and lonely knitting 
hours of her aged friend." 

This glimpse into the parlour of Madam Lathrop is no fancy 
sketch. The evening was usually closed by the singing of devotional 
hymns, and the repetition, from memory, of favourite psalms, or choice 
specimens of serious verse. The readings were mostly of devotional works. 
Young's Night Thoughts stood highest upon the list, and had several 



78 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 

times been read aloud, from beginning to end, by the young student, at 
an age in which most children can scarcely read, intelligibly, the simplest 
verse. Other tomes, and some heavy and sombrous, were also made fami- 
liar to her young mind, by repeated perusal ; but as the upper shelves of 
the lady's library contained some volumes of a lighter character, the curi- 
osity of childhood would render it pardonable, if now and then those shelves 
were furtively explored, or some old play or romance withdrawn, to be 
read by stealth in the solitary chamber. 

The chamber, to the young student, is a sacred precinct. There, not 
only is the evening problem and the morning recitation faithfully pre- 
pared for the school, and the borrowed book pored over in delightful 
secrecy, with no intrusive eye to note the smiles and tears and unconscious 
gesticulation, that respond to the moving incidents of the tale — but there, 
too, in silent and solitary hours, the light-footed muse slips in, and makes 
her earliest visits, leaving behind those first faintly dotted notes of music, 
which are for a long time bashfully kept concealed from every eye. 

Madam Lathrop watched with entire complacency the dawning genius 
of her young favourite. The simple, poetic effusion occasionally brought 
from that solitary chamber and timidly submitted to her inspection, was 
sure to be received with encouraging praise, and to kindle in the face of 
her aged friend that glow of approbation which was the highest reward 
that the imagination of the young aspirant had then conceived. 

The death of her venerable benefactress, which took place when she 
was fourteen years of age, was the first deep sorrow which her young 
heart had known. It was a disruption of very tender ties — the breaking 
up of a peculiar intimacy between youth and age, and she could not be 
easily solaced for the bereavement. Nor has her mind ever lost the 
influence of this early association. It has kept with her through life, and 
runs like a fine vein through all her writings. The memory, the image, 
the teachings of this sainted friend, seem to accompany her like an invisible 
presence, and wherever the scene may be, she turns aside to commune 
with her spirit, or to cast a fresh flower upon her grave. 

Mrs. Sigourney has been remarkable through life for the steadfastness 
of her friendships. Besides the venerable companion already commemo- 
rated, she became early in life very tenderly attached to one of her own 
age, whose history has become identified with her own. This was Anna 
Maria Hyde ; a young lady whose sterling worth and fine mental powers 
were graced and rendered winning by uncommon vivacity and sweetness 
of disposition, unaffected modesty, and varied acquirements. The friend- 
ship of these two young persons for each other was intimate and endearing. 
They were companions in long rural walks, they sat side by side at their 
studies, visited at each other's dwellings, read together, wrought the same 
needle-work pattern, or, with paint and pencil, shaded the same flower. 
The neighbours regarded them as inseparable ; the names of Hyde and 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 79 

Huntley were wreathed together, and one was seldom mentioned without 
the other. Youthful friendships are, however, so common, and usually so 
transient, that this would scarcely demand notice, but for the strength of 
its foundation. It appeared to be based upon a mutual, strong desire to 
do good to others ; a fixed purpose to employ the talents which God had 
given them, for the benefit of the world upon which they had entered. In 
pursuance of this object, they not only addressed themselves to the assi- 
duous cultivation of their mental powers, but they engaged with alacrity 
in domestic affairs and household duties; and they found time, also, to 
make garments for the poor, to instruct indigent childi'en, to visit the old 
and infirm, read with them, and administer to their temporal comfort, and 
to watch with the sick and dying. 

Among the plans for future usefulness which these young friends 
revolved, none seemed so feasible, or so congenial to their tastes, as that 
of devoting themselves to the ofiice of instruction. This, therefore, they 
adopted as their province, their chosen sphere of action, and they reso- 
lutely kept this object in view, through the course of their education. 
The books they read, the studies they pursued, the accomplishments they 
sought, all had a reference to this main design. After qualifying them- 
selves to teach those English sciences which were considered necessary to 
the education of young females, together with the elements of the Latin 
tongue, they went to Hartford and spent the winter of 1810-11 princi- 
pally in attention to the ornamental branches, which were then in vogue. 
Returning from thence, they entered at once, at the age of nineteen, upon 
their grand pursuit. A class of young ladies in their native town gathered 
joyfully around them, and into this circle they cast not only the affluence 
of their well stored minds, and the cheering inspiration of youthful zeal, 
but all the strength of their best and holiest principles. Animated^ 
blooming, happy, linked affectionately arm in arm, they daily came in 
among their pupils, diffusing love and cheerfulness, as well as knowledge, 
and commanding the most grateful attention and respect. 

The cordial affection between these interesting young teachers was itself 
a most important lesson to their pupils. One of the privileged few, wri- 
ting after a lapse of forty years, thus testifies to the lasting impression it 
produced upon their young hearts. '' Pleasant it is to review those dove- 
like days — to recall the lineaments of that diligent, earnest, mind-expand- 
ing group ; and to note again the dissimilarity so beautifully harmonious, 
between those whom we delighted to call our sweet sister-teachers — the two 
inseparables, inimitahles. It was a matter of admiration to the pupils, 
that such oneness of sentiment, opinion, and affection, should co-exist with 
such a diversity in feature, voice, eyes, expression, manner, and movement, 
as the two friends exhibited." 

After a pleasing association of two years, the young teachers parted, 
each to pursue the same line of occupation in a different sphere. But 



80 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 

another separation, fatal and afflictive, soon took place. The interesting 
and accomplished Miss Hyde was taken away in the midst of usefulness 
and promise — mowed down like a rose-tree in bloom, March 26th, 1816, 
at the age of twenty-four. Of this beloved companion of her youth, Mrs. 
Sigourney wrote an interesting memoir, soon after her decease ; and she 
again recurs to her with gushing tenderness, in the piece entitled " Home 
of an early friend/' written nearly thirty years after the scene of bereave- 
ment. In flowing verse, and prose almost as harmonious as music, she 
has twined a lasting memorial of the worth of the departed, and of that 
tender friendship which was a marked incident in her own young life. 

Before the death of her friend, she had transferred her residence to 
Hartford, and again entered, with fresh enthusiasm, upon the task of 
instruction. In this path she was happy and successful ; it was regarded 
as a privilege to be received into her circle, and many of her pupils became 
life-long friends, strewing her subsequent pathway with flowers. 

In Hartford, she was at once received as a welcome and cherished 
inmate of the family of Madam Wadsworth, relict of Col. Jeremiah Wads- 
worth, whose mother was a Talcot, and nearly connected with the revered 
Madam Lathrop. The mansion-house in which Madam Wadsworth and 
the aged sisters of her husband dwelt, stood upon the spot now occupied 
by the Wadsworth Athenaeum. It was a spacious structure ; unadorned, 
but deeply interesting in its historic associations. To the young guest it 
seemed a consecrated roof, whose every room was peopled with images of 
the past ; nor was her ear ever inattentive to those descriptive sketches of 
the heroic age of our country, with which its venerable inhabitants enli- 
vened the evening hours. The poem, " On the Removal of an Ancient 
Mansion," is a graphic delineation of the impressions made on her mind 
by her acquaintance with the threshold and hearth-stone of this fine old 
house, and her communion with its excellent inmates. 

Another member of the same family, Daniel Wadsworth, Esq., had 
always manifested a lively interest in her mental cultivation. He had 
known her in childhood, under the roof of Madam Lathrop, and had there 
seen some of her early effusions, both in prose and verse. At his earnest 
solicitation, she made a collection of her fugitive pieces, and under his 
patronage, and with his influence and liberality east around her as a shield, 
she first ventured to appear before the public as an author. Mr. Wads- 
worth's regard for her suffered no diminution till his death, which took 
place in 1848. Few authors have found a friend so kind and so true. 
Of her afi'ection for him and his amiable wife, her writings contain many 
proofs. Her Monody on the death of Mr. Wadsworth has the following 
noble stanza: — 

"Oh, friend! thou didst o'ermaster well 
The pride of wealth, and multiply 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 81 

Good deeds not done for the good word of men, 

But for Heaven's judging ken, 

And clear, omniscient Eye : 
And surely where ' the just made perfect' dwell, 

Earth's voice of highest eulogy 
Is like the bubble of the far-off sea, — 

A sigh upon the grave 
Scarce moving the frail flowers that o'er its surface wave." 

We have thus far glanced at the principal scenes and circumstances, 
which appear to have had an influence in forming the character of Mrs. 
Sigourney, and preparing her genius for flight. As Miss Huntley, she 
gave no works to the press except those to which ^illusion has been made, 
viz: "Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse," and a memoir of her friend, 
Miss Hyde. The " Sketch of Connecticut, forty years since," was, how- 
ever, one of her earliest productions, though not published until 1824. It 
is honourable to her sensibilities, that so large a portion of these works was 
prompted by the grateful feelings of the heart. Her later emanations are 
enriched with deeper trains of thought, and melodies of higher and more 
varied power, but these are the genuine outpourings of affection — the first 
fruits of mind, bathed in the dew of life's morning, and laid upon the 
altar of gratitude. 

The marriage of Miss Huntley with Charles Sigourney, Esq., merchant 
of Hartford, took place at Norwich, June 16th, 1819. 

Mrs. Sigourney's domestic life has been varied with frequent excur- 
sions and tours, which have rendered her familiar with the scenery and 
society of most parts of her own country, and in 1840, she went to Europe, 
and remained there nearly a year, visiting England, Scotland, and France. 
''Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands," published in 1843, and ''Scenes 
in my Native Land," published in 1845, afford sufficient evidence that tra- 
velling has had a, conspicuous agency in giving richness and variety to her 
productions. 

A personal stranger to Mrs. Sigourney, acquainted only with her 
varied literary pursuits and numerous writings, might be disposed to think 
that they occupied her whole time, and that she had accomplished little 
else in life. Such an assumption would be entirely at variance with the 
truth. The popular, but now somewhat stale notion, that female writers 
are, of course, negligent in personal costume, domestic thrift, and all those 
social ofiices which are woman's appropriate and beautiful sphere of action, 
can never prop its baseless and falling fabric with her example. She has 
sacrificed no womanly or household duty, no ofiice of friendship or bene- 
volence for the society of the muses. That she is able to perform so much 
in so many varied departments of literature and social obligation, is owing 
to her diligence. She acquired in early life that lesson — simple, homely, 
but invaluable — to make the most of passing time. Hours are seeds of 
gold; she has not sown them on the wind, but planted them in good 
ground, and the harvest is consequently a hundred fold. 
11 



82 LYDIA 11. SIGOURNEY. 

Authentic report informs us that no one better fills the arduous station 
of a New England housekeeper, in all its various and complicated depart- 
ments. Nor are the calls of benevolence unheeded. Like that distin- 
guished philanthropist, from whom she derives her intermediate name, she 
is said to go about doing good. Much of her time is devoted to the practi- 
cal, silent, unambitious duties of charity. Nor must we omit the crowning- 
praise of all — the report of her humble, unceasing, unpretending, untiring 
devotion. 

We may not conclude this brief review of the life of Mrs. Sigourney. 
without allusion to a recent afilictive stroke of Providence, which has over- 
shadowed her path with a dark cloud, and almost bowed her spirit to the 
earth with its weight. She was the mother of two children ; the young- 
est, an only son, had just arrived at the verge of manhood, when he was 
selected by the Destroying Angel as his own, and veiled from her sight.* 
A sorrow like this, she had never before known. Such a bereave- 
ment cannot take place and not leave desolation behind. Around this 
early-smitten one, the fond hopes of a mother's heart had clustered ; all 
those hopes are extinguished; innumerable, tender sympathies are cut 
away ; the glowing expectations, nurtured for many years, are destroyed, 
and the cold urn left in their place. But the Divine Hand knows how to 
remove branches from the tree without blighting it ; and though crushed 
and wounded, the faith of the Christian sustains the bereaved parent. Her 
reply to a friend who sympathized in her affliction, will show both the 
depth of her sorrow, and the source of her consolation — "God's time and 
will are beautiful, and through bursts of blinding tears I give him 
thanks." 

The amount of Mrs. Sigourney's literary labours may be estimated 
from the following list of her publications, which is believed to be nearly 
complete. The works are all prose, and all 12mo., unless otherwise 
expressly stated : " Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse," 267 pages, 1815 ; 
"Biography and Writings of A. M. Hyde," 241 pp., 1816; "Traits of 
the Aborigines," a poem, 284 pp., 1822 ; " Sketch of Connecticut, forty 
years since," 280 pp., 1824; "Poems," 228 pp., 1827; "Biography of 
Females," 112 pp., small size, 1829 ; " Biography of Pious Persons," 
838 pp., 1832, two editions the first year, now out of print, as are all the 
preceding volumes; " Evening Readings in History," 128 pp., 1833; "Let- 
ters to Young Ladies," 295 pp., 1833, twenty editions; "Memoirs of 
Phebe Hammond," 30 pp., 1833 ; " How to be Happy," 126 pp., 1833, 
two editions the first year, and several in London; "Sketches," 216 
pp., 1834; "Poetry for Children," 102 pp., small size, 1834; "Select 
Poems," 338 pp., 1834, eleven editions; "Tales and Essays for Children," 
128 pp., 1834; "Zinzendorff and other Poems," 300 pp., 1834; "His- 
tory of Marcus Aurelius," 122 pp., 1835; " Olive Buds," 136 pp., 1836; 

* Andrew M. Sigourney died in Hartford, June, 1850, aged nineteen years. 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 83 

*' Girls' Keadiug Book," prose and poetry, 243 pp., 1838, between 
twenty and thirty editions ; " Boys' Reading Book," prose and poetry, 
247 pp., 1839, many editions; "Letters to Mothers," 296 pp., 1838, 
eight editions; "Pocahontas and other Poems," 283 pp., 1841, reprinted 
in London; "Poems," 255 pp., small size, 1842; "Pleasant Memories of 
Pleasant Lands," 368 pp., prose and poetry, 1842 ; " Child's Book," prose 
and poetry, 150 pp., small size, 1844; " Scenes in my Native Land," prose 
and poetry, 319 pp., 1844; '< Poems for the Sea," 152 pp., 1845; "Voice 
of Flowers," prose and poetry, 123 pp., small size, 1845, eight editions in 
five years ; " The Lovely Sisters," 100 pp., small size, 1845 ; " Myrtis and 
other Etchings," 292 pp., 1846; "Weeping Willow," poetry, 128 pp., 
small size, 1846, six editions in four years ; " Water Drops," prose and 
poetry, 275 pp., 1847; "Illustrated Poems," 408 pp., 8vo., 1848; "Whis- 
per to a Bride," prose and poetry, 80 pp., small size, 1849; "Letters to 
my Pupils," 320 pp., 1851 ; " Olive Leaves," 308 pp., 1851; "Examples 
of Life and Death," 348 pp., 1851; "The Faded Hope," 264 pp., 1852; 
" Memoir of Mrs. Harriet Newell Cook," 252 pp., 1852 ; another about to 
go to press, &c. 

Besides these volumes, forty in number, she has produced several pamph- 
lets, and almost innumerable contributions to current periodical literature. 
She has moreover maintained a very extensive literary correspondence, 
amounting in some years to an exchange of sixteen or seventeen hundred 
letters. 

Perhaps no one, who has written so much as Mrs. Sigourney, has writ- 
ten so little to cause self-regret in the review. The secret of this lies in 
that paramount sense of duty which is the obvious spring of her writings, 
as of all her conduct. If it has not led her to the highest regions of fancy, 
it has saved her from all those disgraceful falls that too often mark the 
track of genius. Along the calm, sequestered vale of duty and usefulness, 
her writings, like a gentle river fresh from its mountain springs, have 
gladdened many a quiet home, have stimulated into fertility many a gene- 
rous heart. Some of her small volumes, like the " Whisper to a Bride," 
are unpretending in character as they are diminutive in appearance, but 
they contain a wealth of beauty and goodness that few would believe that 
have not examined them. Of her larger volumes, none are more widely 
known than the " Letters to Young Ladies," and " Letters to Mothers." 
" Letters to my Pupils," just published, will probably be equally popular, 
as they are equally beautiful. The scraps of autobiography, so gracefully 
mixed up with her reminiscences of others, will add a special charm to 
this volume for the thousands who have felt the genial influence of her 
teachings and writings. 

The first of the extracts which follow is from " Myrtis and other 
Etchings." 



84 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



THE LOST CHILDREN. 

"I ask the moon, so sadly fair, 

The night's cold breath through shadows drawn, 
'Where are they who were mine ? and where V 
A void but answers, 'AH are gone.' " Miss H. F. Gould. 

There was sickness in the dwelling of the emigrant. Stretched 
upon his humble bed, he depended on that nursing care which a 
wife, scarcely less enfeebled than himself, was able to bestow. A 
child, in its third summer, had been recently laid to its last rest 
beneath a turf mound under their window. Its image was in the 
heart of the mother, as she tenderly ministered to her husband. 

"Wife, I am afraid I think too much about poor little Thomas. 
He was so well and rosy when we left our old home, scarcely a 
year since. Sometimes I feel, if we had but continued there, our 
darling would not have died." 

The tear which had long trembled, and been repressed by the 
varieties of conjugal solicitude, burst forth at these words. It 
freely overflowed the brimming eyes, and relieved the suffocating 
emotions which had striven for the mastery. 

" Do not reproach yourself, dear husband. His time had come. 
He is happier there than here. Let us be thankful for those that 
are spared." 

" It seems to me that the little girls are growing pale. I am 
afraid you confine them too closely to this narrow house, and to the 
sight of sickness. The weather is growing settled. You had 
better send them out to change the air, and run about at their will. 
Mary, lay the baby on the bed by me, and ask mother to let little 
sister and you go out for a ramble." 

The mother assented, and the children, who were four and six 
years old, departed, full of delight. A clearing had been made in 
front of their habitation, and, by ascending a knoll in its vicinity, 
another dwelling might be seen environed with the dark spruce and 
hemlock. In the rear of these houses was a wide expanse of ground, 
interspersed with thickets, rocky acclivities, and patches of forest 



LYDIAH. SIGOURNEY. 85 

trees, while far aAvay, one or two lakelets peered up, wit^ their blue 
eyes deeply fringed. The spirits of the children, as they entered 
this unenclosed region, were like those of the birds that surrounded 
them. They playfully pursued each other with merry laughter, 
and such a joyous sense of liberty, as makes the blood course light- 
somely through the veins. 

" Little Jane, let us go farther than ever we have before. We 
will see what lies beyond those high hills, for it is but just past 
noon, and we can get back long before supper-time." 

" Oh ! yes, let us follow that bright blue-bird, and see what he 
is flying after. But don't go in among those briers that tear the 
clothes so, for mother has no time to mend them." 

" Sister, sweet sister, here are some snowdrops in this green 
hollow, exactly like those in my old, dear garden, so far away. 
How pure they are, and cool, just like the baby's face, when the 
wind blows on it ! Father and mother will like us to bring them 
some." 

Filling their little aprons with the spoil, and still searching for 
something new or beautiful, they j)rolonged their ramble, uncon- 
scious of the flight of time, or the extent of space they were tra- 
versing. At length, admonished by the chilliness, which often 
marks the declining hours of the early days of spring, they turned 
their course homeward. But the returning clue was lost, and they 
walked rapidly, only to plunge more inextricably in the mazes of 
the wilderness. 

" Sister Mary, are these pretty snow-drops good to eat ? I am 
so hungry, and my feet ache, and will not go !" 

" Let me lift you over this brook, little Jane ; and hold tighter 
by my hand, and walk as bravely as you can, that we may get home, 
and help mother set the table." 

" We won't go so far next time, will we ? What is the reason 
that I cannot see any better?" 

"Is not that the roof of our house, dear Jane, and the thin 
smoke curling up among the trees ? Many times before, have I 
thought so, and found it only a rock or a mist." 

As evening drew its veil, the hapless wanderers, bewildered, 



ei LYDIA II. SIGOURNET. 

hurried to and fro, calling for their parents, or shouting for help, 
until their strength was exhausted. Torn by brambles, and their 
poor feet bleeding from the rocks which strewed their path, they 
sunk down, moaning bitterly. The fears that overpower the heart 
of a timid child, who, for the first time finds night approaching, 
without shelter or protection, wrought on the youngest to insup- 
portable anguish. The elder, filled with the sacred warmth of 
sisterly affection, after the first paroxysms of grief, seemed to forget 
herself, and sitting upon the damp ground, and folding the little 
one in her arms, rocked her with a gentle movement, soothing and 
hushing her like a nursling. 

" Don't cry ! oh ! don't cry so, dearest ; say your prayers, and 
fear will fly away." 

" How can I kneel down here in the dark woods, or say my 
prayers, when mother is not by to hear me ? I think I see a 
large wolf, with sharp ears, and a mouth wide open, and hear noises 
as of many fierce lions growling." 

" Dear little Jane, do say, ' Our Father, who art in Heaven.' 
Be a good girl, and, when we have rested here a while, perhaps He 
may be pleased to send some one to find us, and to fetch us home." 

Harrowing was the anxiety in the lowly hut of the emigrant 
when day drew towards its close, and the children came not. A 
boy, their whole assistant in the toils of agriculture, at his return 
from labour, was sent in search of them, but in vain. As evening 
drew on, the inmates of the neighbouring house, and those of a 
small hamlet, at considerable distance, were alarmed, and associated 
in the pursuit. The agony of the invalid parents, through that 
night, was uncontrollable ; starting at every footstep, shaping out 
of every breeze the accents of the lost ones returning, or their cries 
of misery. While the morning was yet gray, the father, no longer 
to be restrained, and armed with supernatural strength, went forth, 
amid the ravings of his fever, to take part in the pursuit. With 
fiery cheeks, his throbbing head bound with a handkerchief, he was 
seen in the most dangerous and inaccessible spots — caverns — ravines 
— beetling cliffs — leading the way to every point of peril, in the 
phrensy of grief and disease. 



LYDIAH. SIGOURNEY. 87 

Tlie second night drew on, with one of those sudden storms of 
sleet and snow, which sometimes chill the hopes of the young 
spring. Then was a sadder sight — a woman with attenuated form, 
flying she knew not whither, and continually exclaiming, "My 
children ! my children !" It was fearful to see a creature so 
deadly pale, with the darkness of midnight about her. She heeded 
no advice to take care of herself, nor persuasion to return to her 
home. 

"They call me! Let me go ! Iwilllay them in their bed myself. 
How cold their feet are ! What ! is Jane singing her nightly hymn 
without me ? No ! no ! She cries ! Some evil serpent has stung 
her !" and, shrieking wildly, the poor mother disappeared, like a 
hunted deer, in the depths of the forest. 

Oh! might she but have wrapped them in her arms, as they 
shivered in their dismal recess, under the roots of a tree, uptorn 
by some wintry tempest ! Yet how could she imagine the spot 
where they lay, or believe that those little wearied limbs had borne 
them, through bog and bramble, more than six miles from the 
parental door ? In the niche which we have mentioned, a faint 
moaning sound might till be heard. 

" Sister, do not tell me that we shall never see the baby any 
more. I see it now, and Thomas, too ! dear Thomas ! Why do 
they say he died and was buried ? He is close by me, just above 
my head. There are many more babies with him — a host. They 
glide by me as if they had wings. They look warm and happy. I 
should be glad to be with them, and join their beautiful plays. But 
0, how cold I am ! Cover me close, Mary. Take my head into 
your bosom." 

" Pray do not go to sleep quite yet, dear Jane. I want to hear 
your voice, and talk with you. It is so very sad to be waking here 
alone. If I could but see your face when you are asleep, it would 
be a comfort. But it is so dark, so dark !" 

Rousing herself with difliculty, she unties her apron, and spreads 
it over the head of the child, to protect it from the driving snow ; 
she pillows the cold cheek on her breast, and grasps more firmly 
the benumbed hand by which she had so faithfully led her, through 



89 LYDIA ri. SIGOURNEY. 

all tlieir terrible pilgrimage. There tliej are ! — The one moves 
not. The other keeps vigil, feebly giving utterance, at intervals, 
to a low suffocating spasm from a throat dried with hunger. Once 
•more she leans upon her elbow, to look on the face of the little one, 
for whom as a mother she has cared. With love strong as death, 
she comforts herself that her sister slumbers calmly, because the 
stroke of the destroyer has silenced her sobbings. 

Ah ! why come ye not hither, torches that gleam through the 
wilderness, and men who shout to each other ? why come ye not 
this way ? See ! they plunge into morasses, they cut their path 
through tangled thickets, they ford waters, they ascend mountains, 
they explore forests — but the lost are not found !• 

The third and fourth nights come and depart. Still the woods 
are filled with eager searchers. Sympathy has gathered them from 
remote settlements. Every log-cabin sends forth what it can spare 
for this work of pity and of sorrow. They cross each other's track. 
Incessantly they interrogate and reply, but in vain. The lost are 
not found ! 

In her mournful dwelling, the mother sat motionless. Her infant 
was upon her lap. The strong duty to succor its helplessness, grap- 
pled with the might of grief, and prevailed. Her eyes were riveted 
upon its brow. No sound passed her white lips. Pitying women, 
from distant habitations, gathered around and wept for her. They 
even essayed some words of consolation. But she answered nothing. 
She looked not toward them. She had no ear for human voices. 
In her soul was the perpetual ci-y of the lost. Nothing overpowered 
it, but the wail of her living babe. She ministered to its necessities, 
and that Heaven-inspired impulse saved her. She had no longer any 
hope for those who had wandered away. Horrid images were in 
her fancy — the ravening beast — black pits of stagnant water — birds 
of fierce beak — venomous, coiling snakes. She boAved herself down 
to them, and travailed as in the birth-hour, fearfully, and in silence. 
But the hapless babe on her bosom, touched an electric chord, and 
saved her from despair. Maternal love, with its pillar of cloud and 
of flame, guided her through the desert, that she perished not. 
Sunday came, and the search was unabated. It seemed only 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 89 

marked by a deeper tinge of melancliolj. The most sei'ious felt it 
fitting to go forth at that sacred season to seek the lost, though not, 
like their Master, girded with the power to save. Parents remem- 
bered that it might have been their own little ones who had thus 
strayed from the fold, and with their gratitude, took a portion of the 
mourner's spirit into their hearts. Even the sad hope of gathering 
the dead for the sepulchre, the sole hope that now sustained their 
toil, began to fade into doubt. As they climbed over huge trees, 
which the winds of winter had prostrated, or forced their way 
among rending brambles, sharp rocks, and close-woven branches, 
they marvelled how such fragile forms could have endured hard- 
ships by which the vigour of manhood was impeded and perplexed. 

The echo of a gun rang suddenly through the forest. It was 
repeated. Hill to hill bore the thrilling message. It was the con- 
certed signal that their anxieties were ended. The hurrying seekers 
followed its sound. From a commanding cliff, a white flag was seen 
to float. It was the herald that the lost was found. 

There they were — near the base of a wooded hillock, half cradled 
among the roots of an uptorn chestnut. There they lay, cheek to 
cheek, hand clasped in hand. The blasts had mingled in one 
mesh their dishevelled locks, for they had left home with their poor 
heads uncovered. The youngest had passed avray in sleep. There 
was no contortion on her brow, though her features were sunk and 
sharpened by famine. 

The elder had borne a deeper and longer anguish. Her eyes 
were open, as though she had watched till death came ; watched over 
that little one, for whom, through those days and nights of terror, 
she had cared and sorrowed like a mother. Strong and rugged 
men shed tears when they saw she had wrapped her in her own 
scanty apron, and striven with her embracing arms to preserve the 
warmth of vitality, even after the cherished spirit had fled away. 
The glazed eyeballs were strained, as if, to the last, they had been 
gazing for her father's roof, or the wreath of smoke that should 
guide her there. 

Sweet sisterly love ! so patient in all adversity, so faithful unto 
the end, found it not a Father's house, where it might enter with 

12 



90 LYDIAH. SIGOURNEY. 

the little one, and be sundered no more ? Found it not a fold 
whence no lamb can -wander and be lost ? a mansion where there 
is no death, neither sorrow nor crying? Forgot it not all its 
sufferings for joy at that dear Redeemer's welcome, which, in its 
cradle, it had been taught to lisp — " Suffer little children to come 
unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of 
Heaven." 



"I HAVE SEEN AN END OF ALL PERFECTION." 

I HAVE seen a man in the glory of his days, and in the pride of 
his strength. He was built like the strong oak, that strikes its root 
deep in the earth — like the tall cedar, that lifts its head above the 
trees of the forest. He feared no danger — he felt no sickness — he 
wondered why any should groan or sigh at pain. His mind was 
vigorous like his body ; he was perplexed at no intricacy, he was 
daunted at no obstacle. Into hidden things he searched, and what 
was crooked he made plain. He went forth boldly upon the face 
of the mighty deep. He surveyed the nations of the earth. He 
measured the distances of the stars, and called them by their names. 
He gloried in the extent of his knowledge, in the vigour of his 
understanding, and strove to search even into what the Almighty 
had concealed. And when I looked upon him, I said with the poet, 
" what a piece of work is man ! how noble in reason ! how infinite 
in faculties ! in form and moving, how express and admirable ! in 
action how like an angel ! in apprehension how like a god !" 

I returned — but his look was no more lofty, nor his step proud. 
His broken frame was like some ruined tower. His hairs were 
white and scattered, and his eye gazed vacantly upon the passers 
by. The vigour of his intellect was wasted, and of all that he had 
gained by study, nothing remained. He feared when there was no 
danger, and where was no sorrow he wept. His decaying memory 
had become treacherous. It showed him only broken images of 
the glory that had departed. His house was to him like a strange 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 91 

land, and his friends were counted as enemies. He thought him- 
self strong and healthful, while his feet tottered on the verge of the 
grave. He said of his son, "he is my brother;" of his daughter, 
"I know her not." He even inquired what was his own name. 
And as I gazed mournfully upon him, one who supported his feeble 
frame, and ministered to his many wants, said to me, " Let thine 
heart receive instruction, for thou hast seen an end of all perfec- 
tion !" 

I have seen a beautiful female, treading the first stages of youth, 
and entering joyfully into the pleasures of life. The glance of her 
eye was variable and sweet, and on her cheek trembled something 
like the first blush of the morning. Her lips moved, and there was 
melody, and when she floated in the dance, her light form^ like the 
aspen, seemed to move with every breeze. 

I returned — she was not in the dance. I sought her among her 
gay companions, but I found her not. Her eye sparkled not there 
— the music of her voice was silent. She rejoiced on earth no 
more. I saw a train — sable and slow-paced. Sadly they bore 
towards an open grave what once was animated and beautiful. As 
they drew near, they paused, and a voice broke the solemn silence : 
" Man that is born of a woman, is of few days and full of misery. 
He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower, he fleeth as it were a 
shadow, and nffver continueth in one stay." Then they let down 
into the deep, dark pit, that maiden whose lips but a few days since 
were like the half-blown rosebud. I shuddered at the sound of 
clods falling upon the hollow coflin. Then I heard a voice saying, 
"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." They covered her 
with the damp soil, and the uprooted turf of the valley, and turned 
again to their own homes. But one mourner lingered to cast him- 
self upon the tomb. And as he wept he said, " There is no beauty, 
nor grace, nor loveliness, but what vanisheth like the morning dew. 
I have seen an end of all perfection !" 

I saw an infant, with a ruddy brow, and a form like polished 
ivory. Its motions were graceful, and its merry laughter made 
other hearts glad. Sometimes it wept, — and again it rejoiced, — 
when none knew why. But whether its cheek dimpled with smiles, 



92 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 

or its blue eyes shone more brilliant tlirougli tears, it was beautiful. 
Tt was beautiful because it was innocent. And cara-worn and sin- 
ful men admired, when they beheld it. It was like the first blos- 
som which some cherished plant has put forth, whose cup sparkles 
with a dew-drop, and whose head reclines upon the parent stem. 

Again I looked. It had become a child. The lamp of reason 
-had beamed into its mind. It was simple, and single-hearted, and 
a follower of the truth. It loved every little bird that sang in the 
trees, and every fresh blossom. Its heart danced with joy as it 
looked around on this good and pleasant world. It stood like a 
lamb before its teachers — it bowed its ear to instruction — it walked 
in the way of knowledge. It was not proud, nor stubborn, nor 
envious, and it had never heard of the vices and vanities of the 
Avorld. And when I looked upon it, I remembered our Saviour's 
words, " Except ye become as little children, ye cannot enter into 
the kingdom of Heaven." 

I saw a man, whom the world calls honourable. Many waited 
for his smile. They pointed to the fields that were his, and talked 
of the silver and gold which he had gathered. They praised the 
stateliness of his domes, and extolled the honour of his family. But 
the secret language of his heart was, " By my wisdom have I gotten 
all this." So he returned no thanks to God, neither did he fear or 
serve him. As I passed along, I heard the complaints of the 
labourers, who had reaped his fields — and the cries of the poor, 
whose covering he had taken away. The sound of feasting and 
revelry was in his mansion, and the unfed beggar came tottering 
from his door. But he considered not that the cries of the oppressed 
were continually entering into the ears of the Most High. And 
when I knew that this man was the docile child whom I had loved, 
the beautiful infant on whom I had gazed with delight, I said in 
my bitterness, " Noio^ liave I seen an end of all 'perfection !" And 
I laid my mouth in the dust. 



SARAH J. HALE. 



Mrs. Hale, so widely known by her eiForts to promote the intellectual 
condition of her sex, is a native of Newport, New Hampshire. Her 
maiden name was Sarah Josepha Buell. Her husband, David Hale, was 
a lawyer. By his death, she was left the sole protector of five children, 
the eldest then but seven years old. It was in the hope of gaining for 
them the means of support and education, that she engaged in authorship 
as a profession. Her first attempt was a small volume of poems, printed 
for her benefit by the Freemasons, of which fraternity her husband had 
been a member. This was followed by "Northwood," a novel in two 
volumes, published in 1827. 

Early in the following year, Mrs. Hale was invited from her native 
State to Boston, to take charge of the editorial department of " The 
Ladies' Magazine," the first American periodical devoted exclusively to 
her sex. She removed to Boston, accordingly, in 1828, and continued to 
edit the magazine until 1837, when it was united with the " Lady's Book" 
of Philadelphia. The literary department of the " Lady's Book" was then 
placed in her charge, and has so remained ever since. She continued, 
however, for several years to reside in Boston, to superintend the educa- 
tion of her sons, then students at Harvard. In 1841, she removed to 
Philadelphia, where she still lives. 

While living in Boston, Mrs. Hale originated the noble idea of the 
" Seaman's Aid Society," over which she was called to preside, and of 
which she continued to be the president until her removal to Philadelphia. 
This institution, or rather Mrs. Hale as its animating spirit, first suggested 
the plan of a " Home for Sailors," and showed its practicability by esta- 
blishing one in Boston, which became completely successful. The many 
establishments of this kind, now existing in various ports, all took their 
origin in that of the Boston '' Seaman's Aid Society," and in the ideas and 
reasonings of their first seven annual reports, all of which were from the 

(93) 



94 SARAH J. HALE. 

pen of Mrs. Hale. Nothing that she has ever written, probably, has been 
more productive of good than this series of annual reports ; and though 
they may be, from their official character, such as to add nothing to her 
literary laurels, they certainly form an important addition to her general 
claims to honour as one of the wise and good of the land. 

Besides '^ Northwood," which was republished in London under the 
title of "A New England Tale,'' her published works are : "Sketches of 
American Character;" " Traits of American Life;" " Flora's Interpreter," 
of which more than forty thousand copies have been sold, besides English 
reprints ; " The Ladies' "Wreath," a selection from the female poets of 
England and America;" "The Grood Housekeeper, the way to live well, 
and to be well while we live," a manual of cookery, of which large and very 
numerous editions have been printed ; " G-rosvenor, a Tragedy ;" " Alice 
Ray, a Romance in Rhyme ;" " Harry Gruy, the Widow's Son, a Romance 
of the Sea" (the last two written for charitable purposes, and the proceeds 
given away accordingly) ; " Three Hours, or the Vigil of Love, and other 
Poems," in 1848; "A* Complete Dictionary of Poetical Quotations," a 
work of nearly six hundred pages, large octavo, printed in double columns, 
and containing selections, on subjects alphabetically arranged, from the 
poets of England and America; "The Judge, a Drama of American 
Life," published, in numbers, in the Lady's Book, and about to be given 
to the world in book form. Mrs. Hale has also edited several annuals — 
"The Opal," "The Crocus," &c., and prepared quite' a number of books 
for the young. A large number of essays, tales, and poems lie scattered 
among the periodicals of the day, sufficient to fill several volumes. These 
she proposes to collect and publish, in book form, after concluding her 
editorial career. 

By far the most important and honourable monument of her labour is 
the volume now passing through the press, entitled " Woman's Record." 
This is a general biographical dictionary of distinguished women of all 
nations and ages, filling about nine hundred pages, of the largest 
octavo size, closely printed in double columns. Mrs. Hale has been 
engaged for several years upon this undertaking, the labour of which was 
enough to appal any but a woman of heroic spirit. It needs no prophetic 
vision to predict that this great work will be an enduring " Record," not 
only of woman in general, but of the high aims, the indefatigable industry, 
the varied reading, and just discrimination of its ever to be honoured 
author. 

The first extract from the writings of Mrs. Hale is taken from the work 
last named, and is in some measure a continuation of the present bio- 
graphical notice. 



SARAH J. HALE. 95 



FROM "WOMAN'S RECORD." 

A FEW words respecting the influences -which have, probably, 
caused me to become the Chronicler of my own sex, may not be 
considered egotistical. I was mainly educated by my mother, and 
strictly taught to make the Bible the guide of my life. The books 
to which I had access were few, very few, in comparison with the 
number given children now-a-days ; but they were such as required 
to be studied — and I did study them. Next to the Bible and The 
Pilgrim's Progress, my earliest reading was Milton, Addison, Pope, 
Johnson, Cowper, Burns, and a portion of Shakspeare. I did not 
obtain all his works till I was nearly fifteen. The first regular 
novel I read was " The Mysteries of Udolpho," when I was quite 
a child. I name it on account of the influence it exercised over 
my mind. I had remarked that of all the books I saw, f^v Avere 
written by Americans, and none by women. Here was a work, the 
most fascinating I had ever read, always excepting " The Pilgrim's 
Progress," written by a woman ! How happy it made me ! The 
wish to promote the reputation of my own sex, and do something 
for my own country, were among the earliest mental emotions I can 
recollect. These feelings have had a salutary influence by direct- 
ing my thoughts to a definite object ; my literary pursuits have had 
an aim beyond self-seeking of any kind. The mental influence of 
woman over her own sex, which was so important in my case, has 
been strongly operative in inclining me to undertake this my latest 
work, "Woman's Record." I have sought to make it an assistant 
in home education ; hoping the examples shown and characters por- 
trayed, might have an inspiration and a power in advancing the 
moral progress of society. Yet I cannot close without adverting 
to the ready and kind aid I have always met with from those men 
with whom I have been most nearly connected. To my brother* 
I owe what knowledge I possess of the Latin, of the higher 
branches of mathematics, and of mental philosophy. He often 
lamented that I could not, like himself, have the privilege of a 
* The late Judge Buell, of Glen's Falls, New York. 



98 SARAH J. HALE. 

college education. To my husband I was yet more deeply indebted. 
He "was a number of years my senior, and far more my superior in 
learning. We commenced, soon after our marriage, a system of 
study and reading which we pursued while he lived. The hours 
allowed were from eight o'clock in the evening till ten ; two hours 
in the twenty-four : how I enjoyed those hours ! In all our mental 
pursuits, it seemed the aim of my husband to enlighten my reason, 
strengthen my judgment, and give me confidence in my own powers 
of mind, which he estimated much higher than I. But this appro- 
bation which he bestowed on my talents has been of great encou- 
ragement to me in attempting the duties that have since become my 
portion. And if there is any just praise due to the works I have 
prepared, the sweetest thought is — that his name bears the celebrity. 



THE MODE. 



What a variety of changes there has been in the costumes of 
men and women since the fig-leaf garments were in vogue ! And 
these millions of changes have, each and all, had their admirers, 
and every fashion has been, in its day, called beautiful. It is evi- 
dent, therefore, that the reigning fashion, whatever it be, com- 
prehends the essence of the agreeable, and that to continue one 
particular mode or costume, beautiful for successive ages, it would 
only be necessary to keep it fashionable. Some nations have taken 
advantage of this principle in the philosophy of dress, and have, by 
that means, retained a particular mode for centuries; and there is 
no doubt the belles of these unfading fashions were, and are, quite 
as ardently admired, as though they had changed the form of their 
apparel at every revolution of the moon. 

In some important particulars these fixed planets of fashion cer- 
tainly have the advantage over those who are continually displaying 
a new phasis. They present fewer data for observation, and con- 
sequently, the alterations which time will bring to the fairest 
Derson are less perceptible, or, as they always seem the same, less 



SARAH J. HALE. 97 

noted. There are few trials more critical to a -waning beauty, than 
the appearing in a new and brilliant fashion. If it becomes her, 
the whisper instantly runs round the circle, " how young she looks !" 
— a most invidious way of hinting she is as old as the hills ; — if it 
does not become her, which is usually the case, then you will hear 
the remark, "what an odious dress!" — meaning, the wearer looks 
as ugly as the Fates. 

The contrast between a new fashion and an old familiar face 
instantly strikes the beholder, and makes him run over all the 
changes in appearance he has seen the individual assume ; and 
then, there is danger that the antiquated fashions may be revived — 
and how provoking it is to be questioned whether one remembers 
when long waists and hoops, and ruffled-cuifs were worn ! — A refer- 
ence to the parish-register, or the family-record, would not disclose 
the age more effectually. 

Nor are the youthful exempted from their share in the evils of 
change. It draws the attention of the beholder to the dress, rather 
than the wearers ; and it reminds bachelors, palpably and alarm- 
ingly, of the expense of supporting a wife who must thus appear in 
a new costume every change of the mode. 

Now, as it is fashion which makes the pleasing in dress, were one 
particular form retained ever so long, it would always please, and 
thus the unnecessary expense of time and money be avoided ; and 
the charges of fickleness and frivolousness entirely repelled. We 
have facts to support this opinion. 

Is not the Spanish costume quite as becoming as our own mode ? 
and that costume has been unchanged, or nearly so, for centuries ; 
while the French and English, from whom we borrow our fashions, 
(poor souls that we are, to be thus destitute of invention and taste !) 
have ransacked nature, and exhausted art, for comparisons and 
terms by which to express the new inventions they have displayed 
in dress. 

We are aware that a certain class of political economists affect 
to believe that luxury is beneficial to a nation — but it is not so. 
The same reasoning which would make extravagance in dress com- 
mendable, because it employed manufacturers and artists, would 

13 



98 SARAHJ.HALE. 

also make intemperance a virtue in those who could aflford to be 
drunk, because the preparation of the alcohol employs labourers, 
and the consumption would encourage trade. All these views of 
the expediency of tolerating evil are a part of that Machiavellian 
system of selfishness which has been imposed on the world for Avis- 
dom, but which has proved its origin by the corrupting crimes and 
miseries men have endured in consequence of yielding themselves 
dupes or slaves of fashion and vice. 

We do hope, indeed believe, that a more just appreciation of the 
true interests and real happiness of mankind will yet prevail. The 
improvements, now so rapidly progressing, in the intellectual and 
civil condition of nations must, we think, be followed by a corres- 
ponding improvement in the tastes and pursuits of those who are 
the elite of society. Etiquette and the fashions cannot be the en- 
grossing objects of pursuit, if people become reasonable. The excel- 
lencies of mind and heart will be of more consequence to a lady 
than the colour of a riband or the shape of a bonnet. We would 
not have ladies despise or neglect dress. They should be ahvays 
fit to be seen ; personal neatness is indispensable to agreeableness 
— almost to virtue. A proper portion of time and attention must 
scrupulously be given to external appearance, but not the whole of 
our days and energies. Is it worthy of Christians, pretending to 
revere the precepts of Him who commanded them not to " take 
thought what they should put on," to spend their best years in stu- 
dying the form of their apparel ? Trifles should not thus engross 
us, and they need not, if our citizens would only shake off this 
tyranny of fashion, imposed by the tailors of Paris and London, and 
establish a national costume, which would, wherever an American 
appeared, announce him as a republican, and the countryman of 
Washington. The men would probably do this, if our ladies would 
first show that they have sufiicient sense and taste to invent and 
arrange their own costume (without the inspiration of foreign mil- 
liners) in accordance with those national principles of comfort, pro- 
priety, economy, and becomingness, which are the only true found- 
ation of the elegant in apparel. 

It is not necessary to elegance of appearance, nor to the pros- 



SARAH J. HALE. 99 

perity of trade, that changes in fashion should so frequently occur. 
Take, for instance, the article of shoes. What good consequence 
results from a change in the fashion of shoes ? 

If we have a becoming and convenient mode, why not retain it 
for centuries, and save all the discussions about square-toed, round 
or peaked — and all the other ad infinitum changes in cut and trim- 
mings ? And if the hours thus saved were devoted to reading or 
exercise, would not the mind and health be more improved than if 
we were employed in deciding the rival claims of the old and new 
fashion of shoes to admiration ? 

Such portions of time may seem very trifling, but the aggregate 
of wasted hours, drivelled away thus by minutes, makes a large 
part of the life allotted us. 

We by no means advocate an idle and stupid state of society. 
Excitement is necessary ; emulation is necessary ; and we must be 
active if we would be happy. But there are objects more worthy 
to call forth the energies of rational beings than the tie of a cravat, 
or the trimming of a bonnet. And when the moral and intel- 
lectual beauty of character is more cultivated and displayed, we 
hope that the "foreign aid of ornament" will be found less neces- 
sary; and when all our ladies are possessed of "inward greatness, 
unaffected wisdom, and sanctity of manners," they will not find a 
continual flutter of fashion adds anything to the respect and affec- 
tion their virtues and simple graces will inspire. 



EMMA C. WILLARD. 



Mrs. Willard is more known as a woman of action than as an author. 
She has devoted the greater part of a long and most useful life to the 
cause of female education, in which her efforts, both as a theorist and a 
practical teacher, have been crowned with signal success. Her prominence 
as a writer, however, does not by any means correspond to that assigned to 
her by common consent as an educator. Still, she has found time in the 
midst of other duties of a most urgent character, to make several valuable 
contributions to the cause of letters. 

Mrs. Willard is the daughter of the late Samuel Hart, of Berlin, Con- 
necticut, where she was born in February, 1787. Her father was 
descended on the maternal side, from Thomas Hooker, minister, and on 
the paternal side, from Stephen Hart, deacon of the original church in 
Hartford, Connecticut. Minister Hooker and deacon Hart were among 
that large company of emigrants who came over in 1630, and settled the 
town of Cambridge, Massachusetts. Five years after its settlement in 
1635, a fresh colony swarmed from the parent hive at Cambridge, including 
the " minister" and the '■'■ deacon" just named, and settled the town of 
Hartford. 

The love of teaching appears to have been a ruling passion in Miss Hart's 
mind, and was developed in her early years. At the age of sixteen she 
took charge of a district school in her native town. The following year 
she opened a select school, and in the summer of the next year was placed 
at the head of the Berlin Academy. During this period, being engaged at 
home throughout the summer and winter in the capacity of instructress, 
she managed in the spring and autumn to attend one or other of the two 
boarding schools at Hartford. 

During the spring of 1807, Miss Hart received invitations to take charge 
of academies in three different states, and accepted that from Westfield, 
Massachusetts. She remained there but a few weeks, when, upon a second 

(100) 



EMMA C. WILLARD. 101 

and more pressing invitation, she went to Middleburj, in Vermont. Here 
she assumed the charge of a female academy, which she retained for two 
years. The school was liberally patronized, and general satisfaction re- 
warded the efforts of its preceptress. In 1809, she resigned her academy, 
and was united in marriage with Dr. John Willard. 

In 1814, Mrs. Willard was induced to establish a boarding school at 
Middlebury, when she formed the determination to effect an important 
change in female education, by the institution of a class of schools of a 
higher character than had been established in the country before. She 
applied herself assiduously to increase her own personal abilities as a 
teacher, by the diligent study of branches with which she had before been 
unacquainted. She introduced new studies into her school, and invented 
new methods of teaching. She also prepared " An Address to the Public," 
in which she proposed " A Plan for Improving Female Education." 

A copy of this plan was sent to Governor De Witt Clinton, who imme- 
diately wrote to Mrs. Willard, expressing a most cordial desire that she 
would remove her institution to the state of New York. He also recom- 
mended the subject of her "Plan" in his message to the legislature. The 
result was the passage of an act to incorporate the proposed institute at 
Waterford ; and another to give to female academies a share of the literary 
fund ; being, it is believed, the first law ever passed by any legislature with 
the direct object of improving female education. 

During the spring of 1819, Mrs. Willard accordingly removed to Water- 
ford, and opened her school. The higher mathematics were introduced, 
and the course of study was made sufficiently complete to qualify the pupils 
for any station in life. 

In the spring of 1821, difficulties attending the securing of a proper 
building for the school in Waterford, Mrs. Willard again determined upon 
a removal. The public-spirited citizens of Troy offered liberal induce- 
ments ; and in May, 1821, the Troy Female Seminary was opened under 
flattering auspices ; and abundant success crowned her indefatigable exer- 
tions. Since that period, the institute has been well known to the public, 
and the name of Mrs. Willard, for more than a quarter of a century, has 
been identified with her favourite academy. Dr. Willard died in 1825 ; 
Mrs. Willard continued her school till her health was impaired, and in 
1830 she visited France. She resided in Paris for several months, and 
from thence went to England and Scotland, returning in the following 
year. After her return she published a volume of travels, the avails 
of which, amounting to twelve hundred dollars, were devoted to the cause 
of female education in Greece. It may be proper to add, that she gave 
the avails of one or two other publications to the same object. 

In 1838, Mrs. Willard resigned the charge of the Troy Seminary, and 
returned to Hartford, where she revised her Manual of American History, 
for the use of schools. The merits of this work, of her smaller United 



102 EMMA C. "VYILLARD. 

States History, and of her Universal History, have been attested by their 
very general use in seminaries of education. 

Since 1843, she has completed the revision of her historical works, 
revised her Ancient G-eography, and, in compliance with invitations, has 
written numerous addresses on different occasions, being mostly on educa- 
tional subjects. 

In the winter of 1846, Mrs. Willard prepared for the press a work which 
has given her more fame abroad, and perhaps at home, than any of her 
other writings. This work, which was published in the ensuing spring, 
both in New York and London, developed the result of a study which had 
intensely occupied her at times for fourteen years. Its title is " A Treatise 
on the Motive Powers which produce the Circulation of the Blood;" and 
its object is nothing less than to introduce and to establish the fact, that 
the principal motive power which produces circulation of the blood is not, 
as has been heretofore supposed, the heart's action, that being only secon- 
dary ; but that the principal motive power is respiration, operating by 
animal heat, and producing an effective force at the lungs. Of this work, 
the London Critic thus speaks : 

" We have here an instance of a woman undertaking to discuss a subject 
that has perplexed and baffled the ingenuity of the most distinguished 
anatomists and physiologists who have considered it, from Hervey down 
to Paxton J and what is more remarkable, so acquitting herself as to show 
that she apprehended, as well as the best of them, the difficulties which 
beset the inquiry ; perceived as quickly as they did, the errors and incon- 
gruities of the theories of previous writers ; and lastly, herself propounded 
an hypothesis to account for the circulation of the blood and the heart's 
action, eminently entitled to the serious attention and examination of all 
who take an interest in physiological science." 

In addition to the compends of history which she has written, she has 
invented, for the purpose of teaching and impressing chronology on the 
mind by the eye, two charts of an entirely original character; one called 
" The American Chronographic," for American History, and the other for 
universal history, called the " Temple of Time." In the latter, the course 
of time from the creation of the world is thrown into perspective, and the 
parts of this subject wrought into unity, and the more distinguished cha- 
racters which have appeared in the world are set down, each in his own 
time. This, in the chart, is better arranged for the memory, than would 
be that of the place of a city on a map of the world. 

In 1849, she published "Last Leaves from American History," contain- 
ing an interesting account of our Mexican War, and of California. 

The poetical compositions of Mrs. Willard are few, and are chiefly com- 
prised in a small volume printed in 1830. 

The details in the foregoing sketch are taken chiefly from Mrs. Hale's 
" Woman's Record." 



EMMA C. WILLAED. 103 



HOW TO TEACH. 

In searching for the fundamental principles of the science of 
teaching, I find a few axioms as indisputable as the first principles 
of mathematics. One of these is this : — He is the best teacher who 
makes the best use of his own time and that of his pupils : for Time 
is all that is given by God in which to do the work of Improvement. 

What is the first rule to guide us in making the best use of Time ? 
It is to seek first and most to improve in the best things. He is not 
necessarily the best teacher who performs the most labour ; makes 
his pupils work the hardest, and bustle the most. A hundred cents 
of copper, though they make more clatter and fill more space, have 
only a tenth of the value of one eagle of gold. 



WHAT TO TEACH. 



What is the best of all possible things to be taught ? Moral 
Goodness. That respects God and Man : God first, and man second. 
To infuse into the mind of a child, therefore, love and fear towards 
God — the perfect in wisdom, justice, goodness, and power — the 
Creator, Benefactor, and Saviour — the secret Witness and the 
Judge — this is of all teaching the very best. But it cannot be ac- 
complished merely in set times and by set phrases : it should mingle 
in all the teacher's desires and actions. The child imbibes it when 
he sees that the instructor feels and acts on it himself. When the 
youth is untruthful, when he wounds his companion in body, in 
mind, in character, or in property, then show him that his ofience 
is against God ; that you are God's ministers to enforce his laws, 
and must do your duty. Be thus mindful in all sincerity ; judge 
correctly, adopt no subterfuge ; pretend not to think that he is bet- 
ter than he really is ; deal plainly and truly, though lovingly, with 
him : then his moral approbation will go with you, though it should 



104 EMMA C. WILLARD. 

be against himself, and even if circumstances require you to punisli 
him. The voice of conscience residing in his heart is as the voice 
of God ; and if you invariably interpret that voice with correctness 
and truth, the child will submit and obey you naturally and affec- 
tionately. But if your government is unjust or capricious — if you 
punish one day what you pass over or approve another, the dissatis- 
fied child will naturally rebel. 

Next to moral goodness is Health and Strength, soundness of body 
and of mind. This, like the former, is not what can be taught at 
set times and in set phrases ; but it must never be lost sight of. It 
must regulate the measure and the kind of exercise required by the 
child, both bodily and mental, as well as his diet, air, and accommo- 
dations. The regular routine of school duties consists in teaching 
acts for the practice of future life ; or sciences in which the useful 
or ornamental arts find their first principles ; and great skill is re- 
quired of the teacher in assigning to each pupil an order of studies 
suitable to his age, and then selecting such books and modes of 
teaching as shall make a little time go far. 



CARE OF HEALTH. 

When I am speaking to Young Girls (the Lord bless and keep 
them), I am in my proper element. Why should it be otherwise ? 
I have had five thousand under my charge, and spent thirty years 
of my life devoted to their service ; and the general reader will ex- 
cuse me if I add some further advice to them, which the light of this 
theory will show to be good. If it is so, others may have its benefit 
as well as they ; but it is most natural to me to address myself to 
them. 

Would you, my dear young ladies, do the will of God on earth by 
being useful to your fellow beings ? Take care of health. — Would 
you enjoy life ? Take care of health ; for without it existence is, for 
every purpose of enjoyment, worse than a blank. No matter how 



EMMA C. TVILLARD. 105 

mucli wealtli, or how many laxuries you can command, there is no 
enjoyment without health. To an aching head what is a downy 
pillow with silken curtains floating above ? What is the cushioned 
landau, and the gardened landscape to her whose disordered lungs 
can no longer receive the inspirations of an ordinary atmosphere ? 
And what are books, music, and paintings to her whose nervous suf- 
ferings give disease to her senses, and agony to her frame ? 

Would you smooth for your tender parents the pillow of declining 
life ? Take care of health. — And does the " prophetic pencil" some- 
times trace the form of one whose name perhaps is now unknown, who 
shall hereafter devote to you a manly and generous heart, and mar- 
riage sanction the bond ? Would you be a blessing to such a one ? 
then now take care of your health ; or, if you hesitate, let imagina- 
tion go still further. Fancy yourself feeble, as with untimely age, 
clad in vestments of sorrow, and leaving a childless home to walk 
forth with him to the churchyard, there to weep over your buried 
offspring. 

Study, then, to know your frame, that you may, before it is too 
late, pursue such a course as will secure to you a sound and vigor- 
ous constitution. 



OF THE FORCE THAT MOVES THE BLOOD. 

When circulation is our life, it behoves us to consider well its 
causes, that we may add reason to instinct in its healthful preserva- 
tion. That the blood travels through the system by its own volition, 
none believe ; but that it is an inert mass, which will only move as it 
is moved. What then are the forces which move inert bodies ? Are 
there any which may not be resolved into one of these three : — im- 
pulse, gravitation, and heat ; of which the latter has the greater 
range in point of degree, being in the expansion of a fluid from warm 
to warmer, the most gentle of all imaginable forces, while in other 

states it is the most powerful of any known to man. 
14 



106 EMMA C. WILL ARD. 

It is, then, to one or more of these forces that we must look for 
the motive powers which produce the circulation ; and the human 
circulation has peculiar difficulties to encounter. Man does not enjoy 
his noble erect position without some countervailing disadvantages. 
The long upright column of his blood, spreading at its base, presents 
no trifling force to be moved. And this force is to be overcome by 
means so gentle, that the mind, the dweller in this house of clay, 
shall not be disturbed by its operations. — Again : the parts of the 
body are to be used by the mind as instruments, and ten thousand 
different motions are to be performed at its bidding. — What but Al- 
mighty Wisdom could have effected these several objects ! And is 
it not most reasonable to suppose that this wisdom would assign for 
these purposes, not any one of the forces which move matter, but 
combine them all ? 

Gravitation by itself cannot produce a circulation by any ma- 
chinery. Impulse alone could not carry on a circulation without 
existing in such an excessive degree that it must disturb the mind 
and endanger the body. But heat, the antagonist force of gravita- 
tion, by the lessening or increasing of the maximum and minimum dif- 
ferences, can operate more or less forcibly as occasion requires, and 
at the same time so gently and so quietly, that the mind shall take 
no cognisance of its operation as a moving force. It can be so 
placed, that by its expansive force it shall lift gravitation when that 
obstructs the way ; and by its transmission, leave to it the course 
when its presence as a force would become hurtful. Why, then, should 
we hesitate to conclude that this is the principal force employed, 
since we know it exists in the human system ? And if it is the prin- 
cipal agent which does actually perform this great work, then if the 
quantity afforded be small, so much the more perfect the machine ; 
for so much the less will it be likely either to endanger the body or 
disturb the mind, and so much the more praise is due to the Mighty 
Artificer. 



ALMIEA HART LINCOLN PHELPS. 



Mrs. Phelps is the daughter of Samuel Hart, already mentioned, and 
the sister of Mrs. Emma Willard. Liie her elder sister, Mrs. Phelps has 
been engaged most of her life in the business of education, and in the pre- 
paration of scientific and educational test books. These, and her miscel- 
laneous writings, entitle her to a place in the present collection. 

Mrs. Phelps was born in 1793, at Berlin, Connecticut. She was edu- 
cated chiefly by her sister, Emma. At the age of eighteen, she spent a 
year at the Seminary of Miss Hinsdale, at Pittsfield, Massachusetts ; and 
soon after was married to Simeon Lincoln, the editor of the " Ccnnecticut 
Mirror," Hartford. 

Mrs. Lincoln was left a widow at the age of thirty. Being thrown by 
this event upon her own resources, she commenced preparing herself in the 
most thorough manner for what was henceforth to be her chosen office, the 
education of the young. For this purpose she studied the Latin and Greek 
languages, and the natural sciences, applying herself at the same time to 
the cultivation of her talents for drawing and painting, and spent seven 
yeai's in the Troy Seminary, engaged alternately in teaching and study. 

In 1831, Mrs. Lincoln was married to the Hon. John Phelps, of Vex'- 
mont, and the next sis years of her life were spent in that State. In 1839, 
she became Principal of a Female Seminary at Westchester, Pennsylvania. 
She subsequently removed to Ellicott's Mills, in Maryland, to establish, 
with the aid of her husband, the Patapsco Female Institute. Mr. Phelps 
died in 1849. 

Mrs. Phelps's first publication was a work known as "Lincoln's Botany." 
It appeared in 1829, and had a large circulation. The nest work, a 
"Dictionary of Chemistry," though mainly a translation from the French, 
contained much original matter. After her second marriage, she published 
" Botany" and " Chemistry" for beginners, and also a course of lectures 
on education. These lectures were afterwards published as a volume in 

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108 ALMIRA HART LINCOLN PHELPS. 

Harpers' School Library, under the title of the " Female Student.'' Some 
of her other works have been " Natural Philosophy for Schools," " Geology 
for Beginners," a translation of Madame Necker de Saussure's " Progres- 
sive Education," '' Caroline Westerly, or the Young Traveller," and " Ida 
Norman, or Trials and their Uses." 



EDUCATION. 

The true end of education is to prepare tlie young for the active 
duties of life, and to enable them to fill with propriety those stations 
to which, in the providence of God, they may be called. This 
includes, also, a preparation for eternity ; for we cannot live well 
without those dispositions of heart which are necessary to fit us for 
heaven. To discharge aright the duties of life requires not only 
that the intellect shall be enlightened, but that the heart shall be 
purified. A mother does not perform her w^hole duty, eveii when, 
in addition to providing for the wants of her children and improving 
their understanding, she sets before them an example of justice and 
benevolence, of moderation in her own desires, and a command over 
her own passions : this may be all that is required of a heathen 
mother ; but the Christian female must go with her little ones to 
Jesus of Nazareth, to seek his blessing ; she must strive to elevate 
the minds of her offspring by frequent reference to a future state ; 
she must teach them to hold the world and its pursuits in subser- 
viency to more important interests, and to prize above all things 
that peace which, as the world giveth not, neither can it take away. 



ENERGY OF MIND. 

Can we find no cause why the children of the rich, setting out in 
life under the most favourable circumstances, often sink into insig- 
nificance, while their more humble competitors, struggling against 
obstacles, rise higher and higher, till they become elevated in propor- 
tion to their former depression ? Have we never beheld a plant grow 



ALMIRA HART LINCOLN PHELPS. 109 

weak and sickly from excess of care, while the mountain pine, 
neglected and exposed to fierce winds and raging tempests, took 
strong root and grew into a lofty tree, delighting the eye by its 
strength and beauty ? If we look into our State Legislatures, our 
National Congress, and the liighest executive and judicial offices in 
the country, we do not find these places chiefly occupied by those 
who were born to wealth, or early taught the pride of aristocratic 
distinctions. Most of the distinguished men of our country have 
made their own fortunes ; most of them began life knowing that 
they could hope for no aid or patronage, but must rely solely upon 
the energies of their own minds and the blessing of God. 



EFFECT OF EXCITEMENTS. 

SlRONa excitements have an unfavourable efiect upon the nerves 
of young children. We know this to be the case with ourselves, 
but are apt to forget that things which are common to us may be 
new and striking to them. My child was, on a certain evening, 
carried into a large room brilliantly lighted and filled with company. 
He gazed around with an expression of admiration and delight, not 
unmixed with perplexity ; the latter, however, soon vanished, and 
he laughed and shouted with great glee ; and as he saw that he was 
observed, exerted himself still farther to be amusing. He was then 
carried into a room where was music and dancing ; this was entirely 
new, and he was agitated with a variety of emotions ; fear, wonder, 
admiration, and joy seemed to prevail by turns. As the scene 
became familiar, he again enjoyed it without any mixture of unplea- 
sant feelings. 

But the effect of these excitements was apparent when he was 
taken to his bed-room ; his face was flushed, as in a fever, his ner- 
vous system disturbed, and his sleep was interrupted by screams. 



no ALMIRA HART LINCOLN PHELPS. 

THE CHILD AND NATURE. 

The expression of the emotions of young claildren, when first 
viewing the grand scenery of nature, affords a rich treat to the 
penetrating observer. At eight months old, my child, on being 
carried to the door during a fall of snow, contemplated the scene 
with an appearance of deep attention. He had learned enough of 
the use of his eyes to form some conception of the expanse before 
him, and to perceive how different it was from the narrow confines 
of the apartments of the house. The falling snow, with its brilliant 
whiteness and easy downward motion, was strange and beautiful ; 
and when he felt it lighting upon his face and hands, he held up his 
open mouth, as if he would test its nature by a third sense. 

A few weeks after this he was taken, on a bright winter's day, 
to ride in a sleigh (this scene was in Vermont). The sleighbells, 
the horses, the companions of his ride, the trees and shrubs loa'ded 
with their brilliant icy gems, the houses, and the people whom we 
passed, all by turns received his attention. If he could have 
described what he saw as it appeared to him, and the various emo- 
tions caused by these objects, the description would have added a 
new page in the philosophy of mind. How often are the beauties 
of nature unheeded by man, who, musing on past ills, brooding over 
the possible calamities of the future, building castles in the air, or 
wrapped up in his own self-love and self-importance, forgets to look 
abroad, or looks with a vacant stare ! His outward senses are sealed, 
while a fermenting process may be going on in the passions within. 
But if, with a clear conscience, a love of nature, and a quick sense 
of the beautiful and sublime, we do contemplate the glorious objects 
so profusely scattered around us by a bountiful Creator, with the 
interesting changes which are constantly varying the aspect of these 
objects, still our emotions have become deadened by habit. We do 
not admire what is familiar to us, and therefore it is that we must 
be ever ignorant of the true native sympathy between our own 
hearts and the external world. 



LOUISA C. TUTHILL. 



Americans have excelled in the preparation of books for the young 
One of the most successful writers in this line, and a writer of more than 
ordinary success in other departments of prose composition, is Mrs. Louisa 
C. Tuthill. 

Mrs. Tuthill is descended, on both sides, from the early colonists of 
New Haven, Connecticut, one of her ancestors, on the father's side, being 
Theophilus Eaton, the first Grovernor of the colony. Her maiden name 
was Louisa Caroline Huggins. She was born, just at the close of the last 
century, at New Haven, and educated partly at New Haven and partly at 
Litchfield. The schools for young ladies in both of those towns at that 
time were celebrated for their excellence, and that in New Haven parti- 
cularly comprehended a course of study equal in range, with the exception 
of Grreek and the higher Mathematics, to the course pursued at the same 
time in Yale College. Being the youngest child of a wealthy and retired 
merchant, she enjoyed to the fullest extent the opportunities of education 
which these seminaries afi"orded, as well as that more general, but not less 
important element of education, the constant intercourse with people of 
refined taste and cultivated minds. 

In 1817, she was married to Cornelius Tuthill, Esq., a lawyer, of New- 
burgh, New York, who, after his marriage, settled in New Haven. Mr. 
Tuthill himself, as well as his wife, being of a literary turn, their hospi- 
table mansion became the resort for quite an extensive literary circle, some 
of whom have since become known to fame. Mr. Tuthill, with two of his 
friends, the lamented Henry E. Dwight, youngest son of President Dwight 
of Yale College, and Nathaniel Chauncey, Esq., now of Philadelphia, pro- 
jected a literary paper, for local distribution, called "The Microscope." 
It was published at New Haven, and edited by Mr. Tuthill, with the aid 
of the two friends just named. Through the pages of the Microscope, 
the poet Percival first became known to the public. Among the con- 

(111) 



112 LOUISAC.TUTHILL. 

tributors were J. C. Brainerd,* Professors Fisher and Fowler, Mrs. 
Sigourney, and others. 

Mrs. Tuthill wrote rhymes from childhood, and as far back as she can 
remember was devoted to books. One of her amusements during girl- 
hood was to write, stealthily, essays, plays, tales, and verses, all of which, 
however, with the exception of two or three school compositions, were 
committed to the flames previous to her marriage. She had imbibed a 
strong prejudice against literary women, and firmly resolved never to 
become one. Mr. Tuthill took a different view of the matter, and urged 
her to a farther pursuit of liberal studies and the continued exercise of 
her pen. x\.t his solicitation, she wrote regularly for the " Microscope" 
during its continuance, which, however, was only for a couple of years. 

Mr. Tuthill died in 1825, at the age of twenty-nine, leaving a widow 
and four children, one son and three daughters. As a solace under 
affliction; Mrs. Tuthill employed her pen in contributing frequently to 
literary periodicals, but always anonymously, and with so little regard to 
fame of authorship as to keep neither record nor copy of her pieces, though 
some of them now occasionally float by as waifs on the tide of current 
literature. Several little books, too, were written by her between 1827 
and 1839, for the pleasure of mental occupation, and published anony- 
mously. Some of these still hold their place in Sunday school libraries. 

Mrs. Tuthill's name first came before the public in 1839. It was on 
the title-page of a reading book for young ladies, prepared on a new plan. 
The plan was to make the selections a series of illustrations of the rules 
of rhetoric, the examples selected being taken from the best English and 
American authors. The " Young Ladies' Reader," the title of this col- 
lection, has been popular, and has gone through many editions. 

The ice being once broken, she began to publish more freely, and during 
the same year gave to the world the work entitled " The Young Lady's 
Home." It is an octavo volume of tales and essays, having in view the 
completion of a young lady's education after her leaving school. It shows 
at once a fertile imagination and varied reading, sound judgment, and a 
familiar acquaintance with social life. It has been frequently reprinted. 

Her next publication was an admirable series of small volumes for boys 
and girls, which have been, of all her writings, the most widely and the 
most favourably known. They are IGmo.'s, of about 150 pages each. 
"I will be a Gentleman," 1844, twenty-nine editions; "I will be a Lady," 
1844, twenty -nine editions; "Onward, right Onward," 1845, fourteen 
editions; "Boarding School Girl," 1845, eight editions; "Anything for 
Sport," 1846, eight editions ; " A Strike for Freedom, or Law and Order," 
1850, three editions in the first year. 

In 1852 Mrs. Tuthill commenced a new series, intended for girls and 
boys in their teens. "Braggadocio," 1852; "Queer Bonnets," 1853; 

* See Whittier's Life of J. C. Brainerd. 



LOUISA C. TUT HILL. 113 

"Tip Top," 1854; "Beautiful Bertha," 1854. These have passed through 
several editions, and have been even more popular than the former series. 

Had Mrs. Tuthill written nothing but these attractive and useful 
volumes, she would have entitled herself to an honourable place in any 
work which professed to treat of the prose literature of the country. They 
have the graces of style and thought which would commend them to the 
favourable consideration of the general reader, with superadded charms 
that make them the delight of children. During the composition of these 
juvenile works, she continued her occupation of catering for "children of 
a larger growth," and gave to the world, in 1846, a work of fiction, entitled 
" My Wife," a tale of fashionable life of the present day, conveying, under 
the garb of an agreeable story, wholesome counsels for the young of both 
sexes on the all-engrossing subject of marriage. 

A love for the fine arts has been with Mrs. Tuthill one of the ruling 
passions of her life. At difi'erent times, ample means have been within 
her reach for the cultivation of this class of studies. Partly for her own 
amusement, and partly for the instruction of her children, she paid special 
attention to the study of Architecture in its sesthetical character, enjoying, 
while thus engaged, the free use of the princely library of Ithiel Town, 
the architect. The result of these studies was the publication, in 1848, 
of a splendid octavo volume on the " History of Architecture," from which 
an extract is given. She edited, during the same year, a very elegant 
octavo annual, " The Mirror of Life," in which several of the contributions 
were by herself. 

"The Nursery Book" appeared in 1849. It is not a collection of 
nursery rhymes for children, as the title has led many to suppose, but a 
collection of counsels for young mothers respecting the duties of the 
nursery. These counsels are conveyed under the fiction of an imaginary 
correspondence between a young mother, just beginning to dress her first 
baby, and an experienced aunt. There are few topics in the whole history 
of the management and the mismanagement of a child, during the first 
and most important stages of its existence, that are not discussed, with 
alternate reason and ridicule, in this clever volume. 

Mrs. Tuthill is at present engaged upon a series of works, of an unam- 
bitious but very useful character, grouped together under the general title 
of " Success in Life." They are six volumes, 18mo.^s, of about 200 pages 
each, and each illustrating the method of success in some particular walk 
in life, by numerous biographical examples. The titles of the several 
volumes are: "The Merchant," 1849; "The Lawyer," 1850; "The 
Mechanic," 1850; "The Artist," 1854; "The Farmer," and "The 
Physician," not yet published. 

In 1838, Mrs. Tuthill left her much-loved native city, where until this 
time she had continually resided, and passed four years in Hartford, Con- 
necticut; from thence she removed to Roxbury near Boston. The health 
of her family requiring a change of climate, she went, in 1846, to Phila- 
delphia. Since 1848 Mrs. Tuthill has resided at Princeton, New Jersey. 
15 



114 LOUISA C. TUT HILL. 

DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE IN THE UNITED STATES. 

Domestic architecture in this country must be adapted to the 
circumstances and condition of the people. As it is an art origi- 
nating from necessity, the progress of society must change the 
architecture of every country, from age to age. As wealth and 
refinement increase, taste and elegance must be consulted, without 
destroying convenience and appropriateness. We can no more 
adopt the style of architecture than the dress of a foreign people. 
We acknowledge the fiov»ing robes of the Persian to be graceful and 
becoming ; they suit the habits and climate of the country. The 
fur-clad Russian of the north has conformed his dress t® his climate, 
and made it rich and elegant ; yet, as he aj^proaches his neighbours 
of Turkey, his dress becomes somewhat assimilated to theirs. 
France is said to give the law of fashion in dress to the civilized 
world ; and the absurdities that have resulted from following her 
dictates, have produced ridiculous anomalies in other countries. 

In adopting the domestic architecture of foreign countries, we 
may be equally ridiculous. England, our fatherland, from some 
resemblance in habits and institutions, might furnish more suitable 
models for imitation than any other country ; yet they would not 
be perfectly in accordance with our wants. Our architecture must, 
therefore, be partly indigenous. 

Our associations of convenience, home-comfort, and respectability 
are connected with a certain style of building, which has been 
evolved by the wants, manners, and customs of the people. Any 
great deviations from a style that has been thus fixed, cannot be 
perfectly agreeable. We must improve upon this style, so that 
domestic architecture may in time be perfectly American. 

Man in his hours of relaxation, when he is engaged in the pur- 
suit of mere pleasure, is less national than he is under the influence 
of any of the more violent feelings that agitate every-day life. 

Hence it is that in our country there is danger that our villas 
will be anything rather than national. The retired professional 
man, the wealthy merchant and mechanic, wish to build in the 
country. Instead of consulting home-comfort and pleasurable asso- 



LOUISA C. TUTHILL. 115 

elation, they select some Italian villa, Elizabethan house, or Swiss 
cottage, as their model. Ten chances to one the Italian villa, 
designed for the border of a lake, will be placed near a dusty high- 
road ; the Elizabethan house, instead of being surrounded by vene- 
rable trees, will raise its high gables on the top of a bare hill ; and 
the Swiss cottage, instead of hanging upon the mountain-side, will 
be placed upon a level plain, surrounded with a flower-garden, 
divided into all manner of fantastic parterres, Avith box edgings. 

Our country, containing as it does, in its wide extent, hills and 
mountains, sheltered dells and far-spreading valleys, lake-sides and 
river-sides, affords every possible situation for picturesque villas ; 
and great care should be taken that appropriate sites be chosen for 
appropriate and comfortable buildings ; comfortable, we say, for 
after the novelty of the exterior has pleased the eye of the owner 
for a few weeks, if his house wants that half-homely, but wholly 
indispensable attribute, comfort, he had better leave it to ornament 
his grounds, like an artificial ruin, and build himself another to live 
in. Cottages are at present quite " the rage" in many parts of the 
United States. Some outrd enormities are styled Swiss cottages. 

The larger and better kind of Swiss cottages are built with roofs 
projecting from five to seven feet over the sides ; these projections 
are strengthened by strong wooden supports, that the heavy snow 
which falls upon the roofs need not crush them. Utility and 
beauty are thus combined ; but there is no beauty in such a cottage 
in a sunny vale, where the snow falls seldom or lightly. On the 
Green Mountains, or among the White Hills, it might stand as 
gracefully as it does among its native Alps. AValnut and chestnut 
trees are always beautiful accompaniments to the Swiss cottage. 

The same care should be taken to render the cottage comfortable, 
as the villa ; and in this point, unfortunately, there is often a com- 
plete failure. There is no absolute need that this should be the 
case. A cottage or a farm-house may be picturesque without sacri- 
ficing one tittle of its convenience. The great and leading object 
should be utility, and where that is absolutely sacrificed in archi- 
tecture, whatever may be substituted in its place, it cannot be con- 
sidered beautiful. 



CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND. 

Mrs. Kirkland, formerly Miss Caroline M. Stansbury, was born and 
bred in the city of New York. After the death of her father, Mr. Samuel 
Stansbury, the family removed to the western part of the State, where 
she was married to Mr. William Kirkland, an accomplished scholar, and 
at one time Professor in Hamilton College. After her marriage she 
resided several years in Geneva, and in 1835 removed to Michigan; lived 
two years in Detroit, and sis months in the woods — sixty miles west of 
Detroit. In 1843 she returned to New York, where she has lived ever 
since, with the exception of a visit abroad in 1849, and another in 1850. 
Mr. Kirkland died in 1846. 

She was first prompted to authorship by the strange things which she 
saw and heard while living in the backwoods. These things alwaj^s pre- 
sented themselves to her under a humorous aspect, and suggested an 
attempt at description. The descriptions, given at first in private letters 
to her friends, proved to be so very amusing that she was tempted to 
enlarge the circle of her readers by publication. "A New Home — Who'll 
Follow?" appeared in 1839; "Forest Life," in 1842; and "Western 
Clearings," in 1846. These all appeared under the assumed name of 
" Mrs. Mary Clavers," and attracted very general attention. For racy 
wit, keen observation of life and manners, and a certain air of refinement 
which never forsakes her, even in the roughest scenes, these sketches of 
western life were entirely without a parallel in American literature. Their 
success determined in a great measure Mrs. Kirkland's course of life, and 
she has since become an author by profession. 

An " Essay on the Life and Writings of Spenser," prefixed to an edi- 
tion of the first book of the "Fairy Queen," in 1846, formed her next 
contribution to the world of letters. The accomplished author appears in 
this volume quite as shrewd in her observations, and as much at home, 

(116) 




^"' d 



Y^^^. /^. 



.-^^ 



CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND." II7 

among the dreamy fantasies of the great idealist, as she had been among 
the log cabins of the far west. 

In July, 1847, the " Union Magazine" was commenced in New York 
under her auspices as sole editor. After a period of eighteen months, the 
proprietorship of the Magazine changed hands, its place of publication 
was transferred to Philadelphia, and its name changed to "Sartain's 
Union Magazine." Under the new arrangement, Mrs. Kirkland remained 
as associate editor, her duties being limited, however, almost entirely to a 
monthly contribution. This arrangement continued until July, 1851. 
Her whole connexion with the Magazine runs through a course of four 
years, and much of the marked success of that periodical is due to the 
character of her articles. Having been myself the resident editor of the 
Magazine during the last two and a half years of that time, and conducted 
its entire literary correspondence, I suppose I have the means of speaking 
with some confidence on this point, and I have no hesitation in saying, 
that of all its brilliant array of contributors, there was not one whose arti- 
cles gave such entire and uniform satisfaction as those of Mrs. Kirkland. 
During her first visit to Europe, she wrote incidents and observations of 
travel, which were published, first in the Magazine, and afterwards in book 
form, under the title of "Holidays Abroad; or, Europe from the West," 
in two volumes, 1849. Excepting these, and one or two stories, her con- 
tributions have been in the shape of essays, and they form, in my opinion, 
her strongest claim to distinction as a writer. 



THE MYSTERY OF VISITINa. 

There is something wonderfully primitive and simple in the 
fundamental idea of visiting. You leave your own place and your 
chosen employments, your slipshod ease and privileged plainness, 
and sally forth, in special trim, with your mind emptied, as far as 
possible, of whatever has been engrossing it, to make a descent upon 
the domicile of another, under the idea that your presence will give 
him pleasure, and, remotely, yourself. Can anything denote more 
amiable simplicity ? or, according to a certain favourite vocabulary, 
can anything be more intensely green ? What a confession of the 
need of human sympathy ! What honhommie in the conviction 
that you will be welcome ! What reckless self-committal in the 
whole aifair ! Let no one say this is not a good-natured world, 
since it still keeps up a reverence for the fossil remains of what 
"was once the heart of its oyster. 



118 CAROLINE M. KIRKL AND. 

Not to go back to tlie creation (some proof of self-denial, in these 
days of research), what occasioned the first visit, probably ? Was 
it the birth of a baby, or a wish to borroAV somewhat for the simple 
householdry, or a cause of complaint about some rural trespass ; a 
desire to share superabundant grapes with a neighbour who 
abounded more in pomegranates ; a twilight fancy for gossip about 
a stray kid, or a wound from "the blind boy's butt-shaft?" "Was 
the delight of visiting, like the succulence of roast pig, discovered 
by chance ; or was it, like the talk which is its essence, an instinct ? 
This last we particularly doubt, from present manifestations. In- 
stincts do not wear out ; they are as fresh as in the days when 
visiting began — but where is visiting ? 

A curious semblance of the old rite now serves us, a mere 
Duessa — a form of snow, impudently pretending to vitality. We 
are put off with this congelation, a compound of formality, dissimu- 
lation, weariness, and vanity, which it is not easy to subject to any 
test without resolving it at once into its unwholesome elements. 
Yet Avhy must it be so ? Would it require daring equal to that 
which dashed into the enchanted wood of Ismena, or that which 
exterminated the Mamelukes, to fall back upon first principles, and 
let inclination have something to do with offering and returning 
visits ? 

A coat of mail is, strangely enough, the first requisite when we 
have a round of calls to make; not the "silver arms" of fair Clo- 
rinda, but the unlovely, oyster-like coat of Pride, the helmet of 
Indiiference, the breastplate of Distrust, the barred visor of Self- 
Esteem, the shield of "gentle Dulness;" while over all floats the 
gaudy, tinsel scarf of Fashion. Whatever else be present or lack- 
ing, Pride, defensive, if not offensive, must clothe us all over. The 
eyes must be guarded, lest they mete out too much consideration 
to those who bear no stamp. The neck must be stiffened, lest it 
bend beyond the haughty angle of self-reservation in the acknoAV- 
ledgment of civilities. The mouth is bound to keep its portcullis 
ever ready to fall on a word which implies unaffected pleasure or 
surprise. Each motion must have its motive ; every civility its 
well-weighed return in prospect. Subjects of conversation must 



CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND. 119 

be any but those which naturally present themselves to the mmd. 
If a certain round is not prescribed, we feel that all beyond it is 
proscribed. 0, the unutterable weariness of this worse than dumb- 
show ! No wonder we groan in spirit when there are visits to be 
made ! 

But some fair, innocent face looks up at us, out of a forest home, 
perhaps, or in a wide, unneighboured prairie, — and asks what all 
this means ? " Is not a visit always a delightful thing — full of good 
feeling — the cheerer of solitude — the lightener of labour — the healer 
of diiferences — the antidote of life's bitterness ?" Ah, primitive 
child ! it is so, indeed, to you. The thought of a visit makes your 
dear little heart beat. If one is offered, or expected at your 
father's, with what cheerful readiness do you lend your aid to the 
preparations ! How your winged feet skim along the floor, or sur- 
mount the stairs ; your brain full of ingenious devices and substi- 
tutes, your slender fingers loaded with plates and glasses, and a 
tidy apron depending from your taper waist ! Thoughts of dress 
give you but little trouble, for your choice is limited to the pink 
ribbon and the blue one ; what the company will wear is of still 
less moment, so they only come ! It would be hard to make you 
believe that we invite people and then hope they will not come ! If 
you omit anybody, it will be the friend who possesses too many acres, 
or he who has been sent to the legislature from your district, lest 
dignity should interfere with pleasure ; we, on the contrary, think 
first of the magnates, even though we know that the gloom of their 
grandeur will overshadow the mirth of everybody else, and prove 
a wet blanket to the social fire. You will, perhaps, be surprised to 
learn that we keep a debtor and creditor account of visits, and talk 
of owing a call, or owing an invitation, as your father does of owing 
a hundred dollars at the store, for value received. When we have 
made a visit and are about departing, we invite a return, in the 
choicest terms of affectionate, or, at least, cordial interest ; but if 
our friend is new enough to take us at our word, and pay the debt 
too soon, we complain, and say, " Oh dear ! there's another call to 
make !" 

A hint has already been dropt as to the grudging spirit of the 



120 CAROLINE M. K IRELAND. 

thing, how we give as little as we can, and get all possible credit 
for it ; and this is the way we do it. Having let the accounts 
against us become as numerous as is prudent, we draw up a list of 
our creditors, carefully districted as to residences, so as not to 
make more cross-journeys than are necessary in going the rounds. 
Then we array ourselves with all suitable splendour (this is a main 
point, and we often defer a call upon dear friends for weeks, wait- 
ing till the arrivals from Paris shall allow us to endue a new bon- 
net or mantilla), and, getting into a carriage, card-case in hand, 
give our list, corrected more anxiously than a price-cuirent, into 
the keeping of the coachman, with directions to drive as fast as 
dignity will allow, in order that we may do as much execution as 
possible with the stone thus carefully smoothed. Arrived at the 
first house (which is always the one farthest off, for economy of 
time), we stop — the servant inquires for the lady for whom our 
civility is intended, while we take out a card and hold it prominent 
on the carriage door, that not a moment may be lost in case a card 
is needed. " Not at home ?" Ah then, with what pleased alacrity 
we commit the scrap of pasteboard to John, after having turned 
down a corner for each lady, if there are several, in this kind and 
propitious house. But if the answer is "At home," all wears a 
different aspect. The card slips sadly back again into its silver 
citadel; Ave sigh, and say " Oh dear !", if nothing worse — and then, 
alighting with measured step, enter the drawing-room all smiles, 
and with polite words ready on our lips. Ten minutes of the 
weather — the walking — the opera — family illnesses — on-dits, and a 
little spice of scandal, or at least a shrug and a meaning look or 
two — and the duty is done. We enter the carriage again — urge 
the coachman to new speed, and go through the same ceremonies, 
hopes, regrets, and tittle-tattle, till dinner time, and then bless our 
stars that we have been able to make twenty calls — " so many peo- 
ple were out." 

But this is only one side of the question. How is it with us 
when we receive visits ? We enter here upon a deep mystery. 
Dear simple child of the woods and fields, did you ever hear of 
7'eeeption-dsijs ? If not, let us enlighten you a little. 



CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND. 1.2i 

The original idea of a reception-day is a cliariningly social and 
friendly one. It is that the many engagements of city life, and 
the distances which must be traversed in order to visit several 
friends in one day, make it peculiarly desirable to know when we 
are sure to find each at home. It may seem strange that this idea 
should have occurred to people who are confessedly glad of the 
opportunity to leave a card, because it allows them time to despatch 
a greater number of visits at one round ; but so it is. The very 
enormity of our practice sometimes leads to spasmodic efforts at 
reform. Appointing a reception-day is, therefore, or, rather, we 
should say, was intended to make morning-calls something besides 
a mere form. To say you will always be at home on such a day, 
is to insure to your friends the pleasure of seeing you ; and what 
a charming conversational circle might thus be gathered, without 
ceremony or restraint ! 

No wonder the fashion took at once. But what has fashion 
made of this plan, so simple, so rational, so in accordance with the 
best uses of visiting ? Something as vapid and senseless as a 
court drawing-room, or the eternal bowings and compliments of 
the Chinese ! You, artless blossom of the prairies, or belle of 
some rural city a thousand miles inland, should thank us for put- 
ting you on your guard against Utopian constructions of our social 
canons. When you come to town with your good father, and find 
that the lady of one of his city correspondents sets apart one morn- 
ing of every week for the reception of her friends, do not imagine 
her to be necessarily a "good soul," who hates to disappoint those 
who call on her, and therefore simply omits going out on that day 
lest she should miss them. You will find her enshrined in all that 
is grand and costly ; her door guarded by servants, whose formal 
ushering will kill within you all hope of unaffected and kindly inter- 
course ; her parlours glittering with all she can possibly accumu- 
late that is recherche (that is a favourite word of hers), and her own 
person arrayed with all the solicitude of splendour that morning 
dress allows, and sometimes something more. She will receive you 
with practised grace, and beg you to be seated, perhaps seat her- 
self by you and inquire after your health. Then a tall, grave ser- 
16 



122 CAROLINE M. KIRK LAND. 

vant will hand you, on a silver salver, a cup of chocolate, or some 
other permissible refreshment, while your hostess glides over the 
carpet to show to a new guest or group the identical civilities of 
which you have just had the benefit. A lady sits at your right 
hand, as silent as yourself ; but you must neither hope for an intro- 
duction, nor dare to address her without one, since both these things 
are forbidden by our code. Another sits at your left, looking wist- 
fully at the fire, or at the stand of greenhouse plants, or, still more 
likely, at the splendid French clock, but not speaking a word ; for 
she, too, has not the happiness of knowing anybody who chances 
to sit near her. 

Presently she rises ; the hostess hastens towards her, presses her 
hand with great affection, and begs to see her often. She falls into 
the custody of the footman at the parlour door, is by him committed 
to his double at the hall door, and then trips lightly down the steps 
to her carriage, to enact the same farce at the next house where 
there may be a reception on the same day. You look at the clock, 
too, rise — are smiled upon, and begged to come again ; and, passing 
through the same tunnel of footmen, reach the door and the street, 
with time and opportunity to muse on the mystery of visiting. 

Now you are not to go away with the idea that those who reduce 
visiting to this frigid system, are, of necessity, heartless people. 
That would be very unjust. They are often people of very good 
hearts indeed ; but they have somehow allowed their notions of 
social intercourse to become sophisticated, so that visiting has 
ceased with them to be even a symbol of friendly feeling, and they 
look upon it as merely a mode of exhibiting wealth, style, and 
desirable acquaintances ; an assertion, as it were, of social position. 
Then they will tell you of the great " w^aste of time" incurred by 
the old system of receiving morning calls, and how much better it 
is to give up one day to it than every day ; though, by the way, 
they never did scruple to be " engaged" or " out" when visits were 
not desirable. Another thing is — but this, perhaps, they will not 
tell you, — that the present is an excellent way of refining one's 
circle ; for, as the footman has strict orders not to admit any one, 
or even receive a card, on other than the regular days, all those 



CAROLINE M. KIR KL AND. 123 

who are enough behind the age not to be aware of this, are gradu- 
ally dropt, their visits passing for nothing, and remaining unre- 
turned. So fades away the momentary dream of sociability with 
which some simple-hearted people pleased themselves when they 
heard of reception-days. 

But morning calls are not the only form of our social intercourse. 
"VVe do not forget the claims of "peaceful evening." You have 
read Cowper, my dear young friend ? 

" Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
Throws up a steaming column, and the cups 
That cheer, but not inebriate," etc., etc. 

And you have been at tea-parties, too, where, besides the excel- 
lent tea and coffee and cake and warm biscuits and sliced tongue, 
there Avas wealth of good-humoured chat, and, if not wit, plenty of 
laughter, as the hours wore on towards ten o'clock, when cloaks and 
hoods were brought, and the gentlemen asked to be allowed to see 
the ladies home, and, after a brisk walk, everybody was in bed at 
eleven o'clock, and felt not the worse but the better next morning. 
Well ! we have evening parties, too ! A little different, however. 

The simple people among whom you have been living really 
enjoyed these parties. Those who gave them, and those who went 
to them, had social pleasure as their object. The little bustle, or, 
perhaps, labour of preparation was just enough to mark the occa- 
sion pleasantly. People came together in good humour with them- 
selves and with each other. There may have been some little 
scandal talked over the tea when it was too strong — but, on the 
whole, there Avas a friendly result, and everybody concerned would 
have felt it a loss to be deprived of such meetings. The very bor- 
rowings of certain articles of which no ordinary, moderate house- 
hold is expected to have enough for extraordinary occasions, pro- 
moted good neighbourhood and sociability, and the deficiencies 
sometimes observable, were in some sense an antidote to pride. 

Now all this sounds like a sentimental, Utopian, if not shabby 



124 CAEOLINEM. KIRKLAND. 

romance to us, so far have we departed from such primitiveness. 
To begin, we all say we hate parties. When we go to them we groan 
and declare them stupid, and when we give them we say still worse 
things. When we are about to give, there is a close calculation 
either as to the cheapest way, or as to the most reclierchS, without 
regard to expense. Of course these two views apply to different 
extent of means, and the former is the more frequent. Where 
money is no object, the anxiety is to do something that nobody 
else can do ; whether in splendour of decorations or costliness of 
supper. If Mrs. A. had a thousand dollars' worth of flowers in her 
rooms, Mrs. B. will strain every nerve to have twice or three times 
as many, though all the greenhouses within ten miles of the city 
must be stripped to obtain them. If Mrs. C. bought all the game 
in market for her supper, Mrs. D.'s anxiety is to send to the prairies 
for hers, — and so in other matters. Mrs. E. had the prima donna 
to sing at her soiree, and Mrs. F. at once engages the whole opera 
troupe. This is the principle, and its manifestations are infinite. 

But, perhaps, these freaks are characteristic of circles into which 
wondering eyes like yours are never likely to penetrate. So we will 
say something of the other classes of party-givers, those who feel 
themselves under a sort of necessity to invite a great many people 
for whom they care nothing, merely because these people have 
before invited them. Obligations of this sort are of so exceedingly 
complicated a character, that none but a metaphysician could be 
expected fully to unravel them. The idea of paying one invitation 
by another is the main one, and whether the invited choose to come 
or not, is very little to the purpose. The invitation discharges the 
debt, and places the party-giver in the position of creditor, necessi- 
tating, of course, another party, and so on, in endless series. 

It is to be observed in passing, that both debtor and creditor in 
this shifting-scale believe themselves " discharging a duty they owe 
society." This is another opportunity of getting rid of undesirable 
acquaintances, since to leave one to whom we "owe" an invitation 
out of a general party, is equivalent to a final dismissal. This 
being the case, it is, of course, highly necessary to see that every- 
body is asked that ought to be asked, and only those omitted whom 



CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND. 125 

it is desirable to ignore, and for this purpose, every lady must keep 
a "visiting list." It is on these occasions that we take care to 
invite our country friends, especially if we have stayed a few weeks 
at their houses during the preceding summer. 

The next question is as to the entertainment ; and this would be 
a still more anxious affair than it is, if its form and extent were not 
in good measure prescribed by fashion. There are certainly must- 
haves, and may-haves, here as elsewhere ; but the liberty of choice 
is not very extensive. If you do not provide the must-haves you 
are "mean," of course; but it is only by adding the may-haves 
that you can hope to be elegant. The cost may seem formidable, 
perhaps; but it has been made matter of accurate computation, 
that one large party, even though it be a handsome one, costs less 
in the end than the habit of hospitality for which it is the substi- 
tute, so it is not worth while to flinch. We must do our "duty to 
society," and this is the cheapest way. 

Do you ask me if there are among us no old-fashioned people, 
who continue to invite their friends because they love them and 
wish to see them, offering only such moderate entertainment as 
may serve to promote social feeling ? Yes, indeed ! there are even 
some who will ask you to dine, for the mere pleasure of your com- 
pany, and with no intention to astonish you or excite your envy ! 
We boast that it was a lady of our city, who declined giving a large 
party to "return invitations," saying she did not wish "to exhaust, 
in the prodigality of a night, the hospitality of a year." Ten such 
could be found among us, we may hope ; leaven enough, perhaps, 
to work out, in time, a change for the better in our social plan. 
Conversation is by no means despised, in some circles, even though 
it turn on subjects of moral or literary interest, and parlour music, 
which aims at no eclat, is to be heard sometimes among people who 
could afford to hire opera singers. 

It must be confessed that the wholesale method of "doing up" 
our social obligations is a convenient one on some accounts. It 
prevents jealousy by placing all alike on a footing of perfect indif- 
ference. The apportionment of civilities is a very delicate matter. 
Eeally, in some cases, it is walking among eggs to invite only a 



126 CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND. 

few of your friends at a time. If you choose tliem as being 
acquainted with each other, somebody will be offended at being 
included or excluded. If intellectual sympathy be your touch- 
stone, for every one gratified there will be two miffed, and so on 
with all other classifications. Attempts have been made to obviate 
this difiiculty. One lady proposed to consider as congenial all 
those who keep carriages, but the circle proved so very dull, that 
she was obliged to exert her ingenuity for another common quality 
by which to arrange her soirees. Another tried the expedient of 
inviting her fashionable friends at one time, her husband's political 
friends at another, and the religious friends, whom both were 
desirous to propitiate, at another ; but her task was as perplexing 
as that of the man who had the fox, the goose, and the bag of oats 
to ferry over the river in a boat that would hold but one of them 
at a time. So large parties have it ; and in the murky shadow 
of this simulacrum of sociability we are likely to freeze for some 
time to come ; certainly until all purely mercantile calculation is 
banished from our civilities. 

It is with visiting as with travelling ; those who would make the 
most of either must begin by learning to renounce. We cannot do 
everything ; and to enjoy our friends we must curtail our acquaint- 
ances. When we would kindle a fire, we do not begin by scatter- 
ing the coals in every direction ; so neither should we attempt to 
promote social feeling by making formal calls once or twice a year. 
If we give offence, so be it ; it shows that there was nothing to lose. 
If we find ourselves left out of what is called fashionable society, 
let us bless our stars, and devote the time thus saved to something 
that we really like. What a gain there would be if anything drove 
us to living for ourselves and not for other people ; for our friends, 
rather than for a world, which, after all our sacrifices, cares not a 
pin about us ! 



LYDIA M. CHILD. 



The maiden name of this accomplished writer was Lydia Maria Francis. 
She is a native of Massachusetts, and a sister of the Kev. Conyers Francis, 
D. D., of Harvard University, 

Mrs. Child commenced authorship as early as 1824. Her first produc- 
tion was " Hobomok." It was a novel based upon New England colonial 
traditions, and was suggested to her mind by an article in the North 
American Review, in which that class of subjects was urgently recom- 
mended as furnishing excellent materials for American works of fiction. 
Probably, the example of Cooper, who was then in the height of his 
popularity, and still more, that of Miss Sedgwick, whose ^' Redwood'' was 
then fresh from the pre.ss, had also some influence upon the new author. 
Her work was well received, and was followed in 1825 by " The Rebels," 
a tale of the Revolution, very similar in character to the former. Both 
of these works are now out of print. A new edition of them would bo 
very acceptable. 

Her next publication, I believe, was "The Frugal Housewife," con- 
taining directions for household economy, and numerous receipts. For 
this she had some difficulty in finding a publisher, in consequence of the 
great variety of cookery books already in the market. But it proved a 
very profitable speculation, more than six thousand copies having been 
sold in a single year. 

Mrs. Child's versatility of talent, and the entire success with which 
she could pass from the regions of fancy and sentiment to those of fact 
and duty, still further appeared in her next work, which was on the sub- 
ject of education. It was addressed to mothers, and was called "The 
Mother's Book." It contains plain, practical directions for that most 
important part of education which falls more immediately under the 
mother's jurisdiction. It has gone through very numerous editions, both 
in this country and in England, and continues to hold its ground, notwith- 

(127) 



128 LYDIA M. CHILD. 

standing the number of excellent books that have since appeared on the 
same subject. It was published in 1831. 

The " Grirl's Book/' in two volumes, followed in 1832, and met with a 
similar success. Its object was not so much the amusement of children, 
as their instruction, setting forth the duties of parent and child, but in a 
manner to attract youthful readers. 

She wrote about the same time " Lives of Madame de Stael and Madame 
Roland/' in one volume; ''Lives of Lady Russell and Madame Guyon/' 
in one volume ; " Biographies of Good Wives," in one volume ; and the 
" History of the Condition of Women in all Ages," in two volumes. All 
these were prepared for the "Ladies' Family Library," of which she was 
the editor. They are of the nature of compilations, and therefore do not 
show much opportunity for the display of originality. But they do show, 
what is a remarkable trait in all of Mrs. Child's writings, an earnest love 
of truth. The most original work of the series is the " History of the 
Condition of Women." They are all very useful and valuable volumes. 

In 1833, Mrs. Child published an " Appeal for that Class of Americans 
called Africans." It is said to be the first work that appeared in this 
country in favour of immediate emancipation. It made a profound impres- 
sion at the time. 

In the same year, Mrs. Child published " The Coronal." It was a col- 
lection of small pieces in prose and verse, most of which had appeared 
before in periodicals of various kinds. 

One of the most finished and original of Mrs. Child's works, though it 
has not been the most popular, appeared in 1835. It was a romance of 
Greece in the days of Pericles, entitled " Philothea." Like the " Prophet 
of Ionia," and some of her other classical tales, the " Philothea" shows a 
surprising familiarity with the manners, places, and ideas of the ancients. 
It seems, indeed, more like a translation of a veritable Grecian legend, 
than an original work of the nineteenth century. While all the externals 
of scenery, manners, and so forth, are almost faultlessly perfect, perhaps 
not inferior in this respect to the " Travels of Anacharsis," the story 
itself has all the freedom of the wildest romance. It is, however, romance 
of a purely ideal or philosophical cast, such as one would suppose it hardly 
possible to have come from the same pen that had produced a marketable 
book on cookery, or that was yet to produce such heart-histories as " The 
Umbrella Girl," or " The Neighbour-in-law." Indeed, the most remarka- 
ble thing in the mental constitution of Mrs. Child, is this harmonious 
combination of apparently opposite qualities — a rapt and lofty idealism, 
transcending equally the conventional and the real, united with a plain 
common sense that can tell in homely phrase the best way to make a soup 
or lay a cradle — an extremely sensitive organization, that is carried into the 
third heavens at the sound of Ole Bull's violin, and yet does not shrink 
from going down Lispenard street to see old Charity Bowery. 



Ll'DIA M. CHILD. 12J 

Mrs. Child conducted for several years a '' Juvenile Miscellany," for 
which she composed many tales for the amusement and instruction of 
children. These have since been corrected and re-written, and others 
added to them, making three small volumes, called '' Flowers for Child- 
ren." One of these volumes is for children from four to six years of 
age; one, for those from eight to nine; and one, for those from eleven to 
twelve. 

In 1841, Mr. and Mrs. Child went to New York, where they conducted 
for some time the " Anti-Slavery Standard." Mrs. Child wrote much for 
this paper, not only upon the topic suggested by the title, but on miscel- 
laneous subjects. 

In the same year, 1841, she commenced a series of Letters to the Boston 
Courier, which contain some of the finest things she has ever written. 
They were very extensively copied, and were afterwards collected into a 
volume, under the title of " Letters from New York." This was followed 
by a second series in 1845. 

These Letters are exceedingly various. They contain tales, speculations, 
descriptions of passing events, biographies, and essays, and bring alter- 
nately tears and laughter, according to the varying moods of the writer. 

In 1846, she published a volume called " Fact and Fiction," consisting 
of tales that had previously appeared in the Magazines and Annuals. 
These are of a miscellaneous character, somewhat like the " Letters," 
only longer. 



OLE BULL. 

I HAVE twice heard Ole Bull. I scarcely dare to tell the impres- 
sion his music made upon me. But casting aside all fear of ridi- 
cule for excessive enthusiasm, I will say that it expressed to me 
more of the infinite, than I ever saw, or heard, or dreamed of, in 
the realms of Nature, Art, or Imagination. 

They tell me his performance is wonderfully skilful ; but I have 

not enough of scientific knowledge to judge of the difiiculties he 

overcomes. I can readily believe of him, what Bettina says of 

Beethoven, that "his spirit creates the inconceivable, and his fingers 

perform the impossible." He played on four strings at once, and 

produced the rich harmony of four instruments. His bow touched 

the strings as if in sport, and brought forth light leaps of sound, 

with electric rapidity, yet clear in their distinctness. He made his 

violin sing with flute-like voice, and accompany itself with a guitar, 
17 



i:^0 L YD I A M. CHILD. 

which came in ever and anon like big drops of musical rain. All 
this I felt as well as heard, without the slightest knowledge of 
quartetto or staccato. How he did it, I know as little as I know 
how the sun shines, or the spring brings forth its blossoms. I only 
know that music came from his soul into mine, and carried it upward 
to worship with the angels. 

Oh, the exquisite delicacy of those notes ! Now tripping and 
fairy-like, as the song of Ariel ; now soft and low, as the breath of 
a sleeping babe, yet clear as a fine-toned bell ; now high, as a lark 
soaring upward, till lost among the stars ! 

Noble families sometimes double their names, to distinguish them- 
selves from collateral branches of inferior rank. I have doubled 
his, and in memory of the Persian nightingale have named him Ole 
Bulbul. 

Immediately after a deep, impassioned, plaintive melody, an 
adagio of his own composing, which uttered the soft, low breathing 
of a mother's prayer, rising to the very agony of supplication, a 
voice in the crowd called for Yankee Doodle. It shocked me like 
harlequin tumbling on the altar of a temple. I had no idea that 
he would comply with what seemed to me the absurd request. But, 
smiling, he drew the bow across his violin, and our national tune 
rose on the air, transfigured, in a veil of glorious variations. It 
was Yankee Doodle in a state of clairvoyance — a wonderful proof 
of how the most common and trivial may be exalted by the influx 
of the infinite. 

When urged to join the throng who are following this star of 
the north, I coolly replied, " I never like lions ; moreover, I am 
too ignorant of musical science to appreciate his skill." But when 
I heard this man, I at once recognised a power that transcends 
science, and which mere skill may toil after in vain. I had no 
need of knowledge to feel this subtle influence, any more than I 
needed to study optics to perceive the beauty of the rainbow. It 
overcame me like a miracle. I felt that my soul was, for the first 
time, baptized in music ; that my spiritual relations were somehow 
changed by it, and that I should henceforth be otherwise than I 
had been. I was so oppressed with " the exceeding weight of 



LYDIA M. CHILD. 131 

glory," that I drew my breath with difficulty. As I came out of 
the building, the street sounds hurt me with their harshness. The 
sight of ragged boys and importunate coachmen jarred more than 
ever on my feelings. I wanted that the angels that had ministered 
to my spirit should attune theirs also. It seemed to me as if such 
music should bring all the world into the harmonious beauty of 
divine order. I passed by my earthly home, and knew it not. My 
spirit seemed to be floating through infinite space. The next day 
I felt like a person who had been in a trance, seen heaven opened, 
and then returned to earth again. 

This doubtless appears very excessive in one who has passed the 
enthusiasm of youth, with a frame too healthy and substantial to 
be conscious of nerves, and with a mind instinctively opposed to 
lion-worship. In truth, it seems wonderful to myself; but so it 
was. Like a romantic girl of sixteen, I would pick up the broken 
string of his violin, and wear it as a relic, with a half superstitious 
feeling that some mysterious magic of melody lay hidden therein. 

I know not whether others were as powerfully wrought upon as 
myself; for my whole being passed into my ear, and the faces 
around me were invisible. But the exceeding stillness showed that 
the spirits of the multitude bowed down before the magician. 
While he was playing, the rustling of a leaf might have been heard ; 
and when he closed, the tremendous bursts of applause told how the 
hearts of thousands leaped up like one. 

His personal appearance increases the charm. He looks pure, 
natural, and vigorous, as I imagine Adam in Paradise. His 
inspired soul dwells in a strong frame, of admirable proportions, 
and looks oiit intensely from his earnest eyes. Whatever may be 
his theological opinions, the religious sentiment must be strong in 
his nature ; for Teutonic reverence, mingled with impassioned aspi- 
ration, shines through his honest northern face, and runs through 
all his music. I speak of him as he appears while he and his violin 
converse together. When not playing, there is nothing observable 
in his appearance, except genuine health, the unconscious calmness 
of strength in repose, and the most unaffected simplicity of dress 
and manner. But when he takes his violin, and holds it so caress- 



132 r.YPi v i\i. nil LI). 

ingly to his ear, to catch thi' laiut vibnitioii ot' its strings, it soonis 
as if "the angels Mere Avhisj)ering to liini." As his iingers sweep 
across the strings, the angels pass into his sonl, give liini their 
tones, and look ont iVom liis eyt^s, with th{> >V()n(h'()us be:nity of 
insi)iration. His motions sAvay to the music, like ii tree in the 
"winds ; for soul and body accord. In fact, "his soul is hut a harp, 
which an inllnite breath modulates; his senses are but strings, 
■wliii-h \veaM; the }):issing air into rhythm and cadence." 

If it be true, as has been said, that a person ignorant of the 
rules of music, -who gives himself up to its influence, ■without know- 
ing whence it comes, or whither it goes, experiences, more than 
the scientific, the passionate joy of the composer himself, in his 
moments of inspiration, then was I blest in my ignorance. While 
I listened, nnisic Avas to my soul -what the atmosphere is to my 
body; it was the breath of my inward life. I felt, more dee])ly 
than over, that musie is the highest synd^ol of the infinite and holy. 
I heard it moan plaintively over the diseords of society, and the 
dimmed beauty of humanity. It filled me with inexpressible long- 
ing to see man at one with Nature and with Cod: and it thrilled 
me with joyful prophecy that the hope would pass into glorious 
fulfilment. 

AVith renewed force I felt what I have often said, that the secret 
of creation lay in music. "A voice to light gave being." Sound 
led the stars into their places, and taught chemical afiinities to 
waltz into each other's arms. 

"By OHO povviuliKs;' spirit 
Of tones and Tuuulu>rs nil things nro oontrollod ; 
As sagos taught, whoro faith ^Yas found, to niorit 
Initiation in that mystery old." 

Music is the soprano, the feminine principle, the heart of the 
universe. Because it is the voice of Love, — because it is the high- 
est type, and aggregate expression of passional attraction, therefore 
it is infinite ; therefore it pervades all space, and transcends all 
l)eing, like a divine infiux, "What the tone is to the word, what 
expression is to the form, what aiVection is to thought, what the 



LYDIA M. CHILD. 133 

heart is to the head, what intuition is to argument, what insight is 
to policy, what religion is to philosophy, what holiness is to hero- 
ism, what moral influence is to power, what woman is to man — is 
music to the universe. Flexile, graceful, and free, it pervades all 
things, and is limited by none. It is not poetry, but the soul of 
poetry ; it is not mathematics, but it is in numbers, like harmonious 
proportions in cast iron ; it is not painting, but it shines through 
colours, and gives them their tone ; it is not dancing, but it makes 
all gracefulness of motion ; it is not architecture, but the stones 
take their places in harmony with its voice, and stand in " petrified 
music." In the words of Bettina — "Every art is the body of 
music, which is the soul of every art ; and so is music, too, the soul 
of love, which also answers not for its working ; for it is the contact 
of divine with human." 

But I must return from this flight among the stars, to Ole Bul- 
bul's violin ; and the distance between the two is not so great as it 
appears. 

Some, who never like to admit that the greatest stands before 
them, say that Paganini played the Carnival of Venice better than 
his Norwegian rival. I know not. But if ever laughter ran along 
the chords of a musical instrument with a wilder joy, if ever tones 
quarrelled with more delightful dissonance, if ever violin frolicked 
with more capricious grace, than Ole Bulbul's, in that fantastic 
whirl of melody, I envy the ears that heard it. 



THE UMBRELLA GIRL. 

In a city, Avhich shall be nameless, there lived, long ago, a young 
girl, the only daughter of a widow. She came from the country, 
and was as ignorant of the dangers of a city, as the squirrels of her 
native fields. She had glossy black hair, gentle, beaming eyes, 
and "lips like wet coral." Of course, she knew that she was beau- 
tiful ; for when she was a child, strangers often stopped as she 
passed, and exclaimed, "How handsome she is!" And as she 



134 LYDIA M. CHILD. 

grew older, the young men gazed on lier with admiration. She 
was poor, and removed to the city to earn her living by covering 
umbrellas. She was just at that susceptible age, when youth is 
passing into womanhood ; when the soul begins to be pervaded by 
" that restless principle, which impels poor humans to seek perfec- 
tion in union." 

At the hotel opposite. Lord Henry Stuart, an English nobleman, 
had at that time taken lodgings. His visit to this country is doubt- 
less well remembered by many, for it made a great sensation at the 
time. He was a peer of the realm, descended from the royal line, 
and was, moreover, a strikingly handsome man, of right princely 
carriage. He was subsequently a member of the British Parlia- 
ment, and is now dead. 

As this distinguished stranger passed to and from his hotel, he 
encountered the umbrella-girl, and was impressed by her uncommon 
beauty. He easily traced her to the opposite store, where he soon 
after went to purchase an umbrella. This was followed up by pre- 
sents of flowers, chats by the way-side, and invitations to walk or 
ride ; all of which were gratefully accepted by the unsuspecting 
rustic. He was playing a game for temporary excitement ; she, 
with a head full of romance, and a heart melting under the influ- 
ence of love, was unconsciously endangering the happiness of her 
whole life. 

Lord Henry invited her to visit the public gardens on the fourth 
of July. In the simplicity of her heart, she believed all his flatter- 
ing professions, and considered herself his bride elect ; she therefore 
accepted the invitation with innocent frankness. But she had no 
dress fit to appear on such a public occasion, with a gentleman of 
high rank, whom she verily supposed to be her destined husband. 
While these thoughts revolved in her mind, her eye was unfortu- 
nately attracted by a beautiful piece of silk belonging to her 
employer. Ah, could she not take it without being seen, and pay 
for it secretly, when she had earned money enough ? The tempta- 
tion conquered her in a moment of weakness. She concealed the 
silk, and conveyed it to her lodgings. It was the first thing she 
had ever stolen, and her remorse was painful. She would have 



L YD I A M. CHILD. I35 

carried it back, but she dreaded discovery. She was not sure that 
her repentance "would be met in a spirit of forgiveness. 

On the eventful fourth of July she came out in her new dress. 
Lord Henry complimented her upon her elegant appearance ; but 
she was not happy. On their Avay to the gardens, he talked to her 
in a manner which she did not comprehend. Perceiving this, he 
spoke more explicitly. The guileless young creature stopped, 
looked in his face with mournful reproach, and burst into tears. 
The nobleman took her hand kindly, and said, "My dear, are you 
an innocent girl?" "I am, I am," replied she, with convulsive 
sobs. " Oh, what have I ever done, or said, that you should ask 
me that?" Her words stirred the deep fountains of his better 
nature. "If you are innocent," said he, "God forbid that I 
should make you otherwise. But you accepted my invitations and 
presents so readily, that I supposed you understood me." "What 
could I understand," said she, "except that you intended to make 
me your wife?" Though reared amid the proudest distinctions of 
rank, he felt no inclination to smile. He blushed and was silent. 
The heartless conventionalities of life stood rebuked in the presence 
of affectionate simplicity. He conveyed her to her humble home, 
and bade her farewell, with a thankful consciousness that he had 
done no irretrievable injury to her future prospects. The remem- 
brance of her would soon be to him as the recollection of last year's 
butterflies. With her, the wound was deeper. In her solitary 
chamber, she wept in bitterness of heart over her ruined air-castles. 
And that dress, which she had stolen to make an appearance befit- 
ting his bride ! Oh, what if she should be discovered? And would 
not the heart of her poor widowed mother break, if she should ever 
know that her child was a thief? Alas, her wretched forebodings 
were too true. The silk was traced to her ; she was arrested on 
her way to the store, and dragged to prison. There she refused 
all nourishment, and wept incessantly. 

On the fourth day, the keeper called upon Isaac T. Hopper, and 
informed him that there was a young girl in prison, who appeared 
to be utterly friendless, and determined to die by starvation. The 
kind-hearted Friend immediately went to her assistance. He found 



136 LYDIA M. CHILD. 

her lying on the floor of her cell, with her face buried in her hands, 
sobbing as if her heart would break. He tried to comfort her, but 
could obtain no answer. 

"Leave us alone," said he to the keeper. "Perhaps she will 
speak to me, if there is no one to hear." When they were alone 
together, he put back the hair from her temples, laid his hand 
kindly on her beautiful head, and said in soothing tones, " My 
child, consider me as thy father. Tell me all thou hast done. If 
thou hast taken this silk, let me know all about it. I will do for 
thee as I would for a daughter ; and I doubt not that I can help 
thee out of this difficulty." 

After a long time spent in affectionate entreaty, she leaned her 
young head on his friendly shoulder, and sobbed out, " Oh, I wish 
I was dead. What will my poor mother say, when she knows of 
my disgrace ?" 

"Perhaps we can manage that she never shall know it," replied 
he ; and alluring her by this hope, he gradually obtained from her 
the whole story of her acquaintance with the nobleman. He bade 
her be comforted, and take nourishment ; for he would see that the 
silk was paid for, and the prosecution withdraAvn. He went imme- 
diately to her employer, and told him the story. " This is her first 
offence," said he ; " the girl is young, and the only child of a poor 
widow. Give her a chance to retrieve this one false step, and she 
may be restored to society, a useful and honoured woman. I will 
see that thou art paid for the silk." The man readily agreed to 
withdraw the prosecution, and said he would have dealt otherwise 
by the girl, had he known all the circumstances. " Thou shouldst 
have inquired into the merits of the case, my friend," replied Isaac. 
" By this kind of thoughtlessness, many a young creature is driven 
into the downward path, who might easily have been saved." 

The kind-hearted man then went to the hotel and inquired for 
Henry Stuart. The servant said his lordship had not yet risen. 
" Tell him my business is of importance," said Friend Hopper. 
The servant soon returned and conducted him to the chamber. 
The nobleman appeared surprised that a plain Quaker should thus 
intrude upon his luxurious privacy ; but when he heard his errand, 



LYDIA M. CHILD. I37 

he blushed deeply, and frankly admitted the truth of the gh'l's 
statement. His benevolent visiter took the opportunity to "bear a 
testimony," as the Friends say, against the sin and selfishness of 
profligacy. He did it in such a kind and fatherly manner, that 
the young man's heart was touched. He excused himself, by say- 
ing that he would not have tampered with the girl, if he had known 
her to be virtuous. " I have done many wrong things," said he, 
" but, thank God, no betrayal of confiding innocence rests on my 
conscience. I have always esteemed it the basest act of which man 
is capable." The imprisonment of the poor girl, and the forlorn 
situation in which she had been found, distressed him greatly. And 
when Isaac represented that the silk had been stolen for Ms sake, 
that the girl had thereby lost profitable employment, and was 
obliged to return to her distant home, to avoid the danger of expo- 
sure, he took out a fifty dollar note, and ofiered it to pay her 
expenses. "Nay," said Isaac, "thou art a very rich man; I see 
in thy hand a large roll of such notes. She is the daughter of a 
poor widow, and thou hast been the means of doing her great 
injury. Give me another." 

Lord Henry handed him another fifty dollar note, and smiled as 
he said, " You understand your business well. But you have acted 
jaobly, and I reverence you for it. If you ever visit England, come 
to see me. I will give you a cordial welcome, and treat you like a 
nobleman." 

" Farewell, friend," replied Isaac : " Though much to blame in 
this aff"air, thou too hast behaved nobly. Mayst thou be blessed in 
domestic life, and trifle no more with the feelings of poor girls ; 
not even with those whom others have betrayed and deserted." 

Luckily, the girl had sufiicient presence of mind to assume a 

false name, when arrested ; by which means her true name was 

kept out of the newspapers. "I did this," said she, "for my poor 

mother's sake." With the money given by Lord Henry, the silk 

was paid for, and she was sent home to her mother, well provided 

with clothing. Her name and place of residence remain to this day 

a secret in the breast of her benefactor. 

Several years after the incidents I have related, a lady called 
18 



X38 L^-DIAM. CHILD. 

at Friend Hopper's house, and asked to see him. "When he entered 
the room, he found a handsomely dressed young matron "with a 
blooming hoy of five or six years old. She rose to meet him and 
her voice choked, as she said, " Friend Hopper, do you know me ?" 
He replied that he did not. She fixed her tearful eyes earnestly 
upon him, and said, " You once helped me, when in great distress." 
But the good missionary of humanity had helped too many in 
distress, to be able to recollect her without more precise informa- 
tion. With a tremulous voice, she bade her son go into the next 
room, for a few minutes ; then dropping on her knees, she hid her 
face in his lap, and sobbed out, "I am the girl that stole the silk. 
Oh, where should I now be, if it had not been for you !" 

When her emotion was somewhat calmed, she told him that she 
had married a highly respectable man, a Senator of his native 
State. Having a call to visit the city, she had again and again 
passed Friend Hopper's house, looking wistfully at the windows to 
catch a sight of him ; but when she attempted to enter, her courage 
failed. 

'*But I go away to-morrow," said she, "and I could not leave 
the city, without once more seeing and thanking him who saved me 
from ruin." She recalled her little boy, and said to him, "Look 
at that gentleman, and remember him well ; for he was the best 
friend your mother ever had." With an earnest invitation that he 
would visit her happy home, and a fervent " God bless you," she 
bade her benefactor farewell. 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 

Mrs. Embury is a native of New York, and a daughter of an eminent 
physician of that city, James R. Manley, M. D. She was married on the 
10th of May, 1828, to Mr. Daniel Embury of Brooklyn, where she has 
since resided. 

Mrs. Embury has written much, both in prose and verse, and with 
equal success in both kinds of writing. Her earlier effusions were 
published under the signature of " lanthe." A volume of them was col- 
lected under the title of " Guido, and other Poems." Her tales, like her 
poems, have all been published originally in magazines and other perio- 
dicals. Were these all collected, they would fill many volumes. The 
only volumes formed in this way, thus far, have been, " Blind Grirl, and 
other Tales," " Griimpses of Home Life," and " Pictures of Early Life." 
In 1845 she edited a very elegant gift book, called "Nature's Gems, 
or American Wild Flowers," with numerous coloured plates, and articles, 
both in prose and verse, by herself. In 1846, she published another col- 
lection of poems, called " Love's Token Flowers." In 1848, " The Wal- 
dorf Family" appeared. It is a fairy tale of Brittany, adapted to the 
meridian of the United States and the present age of the world, being 
partly a translation and partly original. 

If Mrs. Embury never rises so high as some of our female writers some- 
times do, no one, on the other hand, who has written so much, approaches 
her in the ability of writing uniformly well. She seems to have the 
faculty of never being dull. There is, too, a certain gentle amenity of 
thought and diction that never forsakes her, taking from the edge of what 
might otherwise be harsh, and giving a charm to what might be common- 
place. If her stories are not deeply tragical or thrilling, they are always 
beautiful, they always please, they always leave the mind instructed and 
the heart better. 

(139) 



140 EMMA C. EMBURY. 



TWO FACES UNDER ONE HOOD. 

"The land hath bubbles as the water hath, 
And these are of them." 

"Who is she?" 

" Ay, that is precisely the question which everybody asks, and 
nobody can answer." 

" She is a splendid-looking creature, be she who she may." 

"And her manners are as lovely as her person. Come and dine 
with me to-morrow ; I sit directly opposite her at table, so you can 
have a fair opportunity of gazing at this new star in our dingy 
firmament." 

"Agreed; I am about changing my lodgings, and if I like the 
company at your house, I may take a room there. 

The speakers were two gay and fashionable men : one a student 
of law, the other a confidential clerk in a large commercial house. 
They belonged to that class of youths, so numerous in New York, 
who, while in reality labouring most industriously for a livelihood, 
yet take infinite pains to seem idle and useless members of 
society ; fellows who at their outset in life try hard to repress a 
certain respectability of character, which after a while comes up 
in spite of them, and makes them very good sort of men in the 
end. The lady who attracted so much of their attention at that 
moment, had recently arrived in the city ; and, as she wore the 
weeds of widowhood, her solitary position seemed sufiiciently ex- 
plained. But there was an attractiveness in her appearance and 
manners which excited a more than usual interest in the stranger's 
history. She had that peculiar fascination which gentlemen regard 
as the most exquisite refinement of frank simplicity, but which 
ladies, better versed in the intricacies of female nature, always 
recognise as the perfection of art. None but an impulsive, warm- 
hearted Avoman, can retain her freshness of feeling and ready 
responsive sympathy after five-and-twenty ; and such a woman 
never obtains sufficient command over her own sensitiveness to 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 141 

exhibit the perfect adaptability and uniform amiableness of deport- 
ment which are characteristics of the skilful fascinator. 

Harry Maurice, the young lawyerling, failed not to fulfil his 
appointment with his friend ; and at four o'clock on the following 
day, he found himself the vis-d-vis of the bewitching Mrs. Howard, 
gazing on her loveliness through the somewhat hazy atmosphere 
of a steaming dinner-table. If he was struck with her appearance 
when he saw her only stepping from a carriage, he was now com- 
pletely bewildered by the whole battery of charms which were 
directed against him. A well-rounded and graceful figure, whose 
symmetry was set ofi" by a close-fitting dress of black bombazine ; 
superb arms gleaming through sleeves of the thinnest crape ; a 
neck of dazzling whiteness, only half concealed beneath the folds 
of di fichu a la grand' mere ; features not regularly beautiful, some- 
what sharp in outline, but full of expression, and enlivened by the 
brightest of eyes and pearliest of teeth, were the most obvious of 
her attractions. 

The ordinary civilities of the table, proifered with profound respect 
by Maurice, and accepted with quiet dignity by the lady, opened 
the way to conversation. Before the dessert came on, the first 
barriers to acquaintance had been removed, and, somewhat to his 
own surprise, Harry Maurice found himself perpetrating bad puns 
and uttering gay hon-mots in the full hearing, and evidently to the 
genuine amusement, of the lovely widow. When dinner was over, 
the trio found themselves in the midst of an animated discussion 
respecting the relative capacity for sentiment in men and women. 
The subject was too interesting to be speedily dropped, and the 
party adjourned to a convenient corner of the drawing-room. As 
usual, the peculiar character of the topic upon which they had fallen, 
led to the unguarded expression of individual opinions, and of 
course to the development of much imjylied experience. Nothing 
could have been better calculated to display Mrs. Howard as one 
of the most sensitive, as well as sensible of her sex. She had evi- 
dently been one of the victims to the false notions of society. A 
premature marriage, an uncongenial partner, and all the thousand- 



Y^2 EMMA C, EMBURY. 

and-ono ills attendant upon baffled sentiment, had probably entered 
largely into the lady's bygone knowledge of life. Not that she 
deigned to confide any of her personal experience to her new friends, 
but they possessed active imaginations, and it was easy to make 
large inferences from small premises. 

Midnight sounded ere the young men remembered that some- 
thing was due to the ordinary forms of society, and that they had 
been virtually " talking love," for seven hours, to a perfect stranger. 
Tlie sudden reaction of feeling, the dread lest they had been expos- 
ing their peculiar habits of thought to the eye of ridicule, the 
frightful suspicion that they must have seemed most particularly 
" fresh" to the lady, struck both the gentlemen at the same moment. 
They attempted to apologize, but the womanly tact of Mrs. Howard 
spared them all the discomfort of such an awkward explanation. 
She reproached herself so sweetly for having sufi"ered her impulsive 
nature to beguile her with such unwonted confidence, — she thanked 
them so gently for their momentary interest in her "melancholy 
recollections of blighted feelings," — she so earnestly implored them 
to forget her indiscreet communings with persons " whose singular 
congeniality of soul had made her forget that they were strangers," 
that she succeeded in restoring them to a comfortable sense of their 
own powers of attraction. Instead of thinking they had acted like 
men '■^afflicted ivitli an extraordinary quantity of youngness,'" they 
came to the conclusion that Mrs. Howard was one of the most dis- 
criminating of her sex ; and the tear which swam in her soft eyes 
as she gave them her hand in parting, added the one irresistible 
charm to their previous bewilderment. 

The acquaintance so auspiciously begun was not allowed to 
languish. Harry Maurice took lodgings in the same house ; and 
thus, without exposing the fair widow to invidious remark, he was 
enabled to enjoy her society with less restraint. Unlike most of 
his sudden fancies, he found his liking for this lady " to grow by 
what it fed on." She looked so very lovely in her simple white 
morning dress and pretty French cap, and her manners partook so 
agreeably of the simplicity and easy negligence of her breakfast 
attire, that she seemed more charming than ever. Indeed, almost 



EMMA C. EMBURY. I43 

every one in the house took a fancy to her. She won the hearts 
of the ladies by her unbounded fondness for their children, and her 
consummate tact in inventing new games for them ; while her entire 
unconsciousness of her own attractions, and apparent indifference 
to admiration, silenced for a time all incipient jealousy. The 
gentlemen could not but be pleased with a pretty woman who was 
so sweet-tempered and so little exacting ; while her peculiar talent 
for putting every one in good humour with themselves, — a talent, 
which in less skilful hands would have been merely an adroit power 
of flattery, — sufliciently accounted for her general influence. 

There was only one person who seemed proof against Mrs. 
Howard's spell. This was an old bank clerk, who for forty years 
had occupied the same post, and stood at the same desk, encounter- 
ing no other changes than that of a new ledger for an old one, and 
hating every innovation in morals and manners with an intensity 
singularly at variance with his usual quietude, or rather stagnation 
of feeling. For nearly half his life he had occupied the same 
apartment, and nothing but a fire or an earthquake would have been 
sufficient to dislodge him. Many of the transient residents in the 
house knew him only by the sobriquet of " the Captain ;" and the 
half-dictatorial, half-whimsical manner in which, with the usual 
privilege of a humourist, he ordered trifling matters about the 
house, was probably the origin of the title. When the ladies who 
presided at the head of the establishment first opened their house 
for the reception of boarders, he had taken up his quarters there, 
and they had all grown old together ; so it was not to be wondered 
at if he had somewhat the manner of a master. 

The Captain had looked with an evil eye upon Mrs. Howard from 
the morning after her arrival, when he had detected her French 
dressing-maid in the act of peeping into his boots, as they stood 
outside of the chamber-door. This instance of curiosity, which he 
could only attribute to an unjustifiable anxiety to be acquainted 
with the name of the owner of the said boots, was such a flagrant 
impropriety, besides being such a gross violation of his privilege of 
privacy, that he could not forgive it. He made a formal complaint 
of the matter to Mrs. Howard, and earnestly advised her to dismiss 



144 EMMA C. EMBURY. 

SO prying a servant. The lady pleaded her attachment to a faith- 
ful attendant, Avho had left her native France for pure love of her, 
and besought him to forgive a first and venial error. The Captain 
had no faith in this being a first fault, and as for its veniality, if 
she had put out an "I," and called it a venal aifair, it would have 
better suited his ideas of her. He evidently suspected both the 
mistress and the maid ; and a prejudice in his mind v\ras like a 
thistle-seed, — it might wing its way on gossamer pinions, but once 
planted, it was sure to produce its crop of thorns. 

In vain the lady attempted to conciliate him ; in vain she tried 
to humour his whims, and pat and fondle his hobbies. He was 
proof against all her allurements, and whenever by some new or 
peculiar grace she won unequivocal expressions of admiration from 
the more susceptible persons around her, a peevish "Fudge!" 
would resound most emphatically from the Captain's lips. 

" Pray, sir, will you be so good as to inform me what you meant 
by the offensive monosyllable you chose to utter this morning, when 
I addressed a remark to Mrs. Howard?" said Harry Maurice to 
him, upon a certain occasion, when the old gentleman had seemed 
more than usually caustic and observing. 

The Captain looked slowly up from his newspaper : " I am old 
enough, young man, to be allowed to talk to myself, if I please." 

"I suppose you meant to imply that I was ^ green,'' and stood a 
fair chance of being ^ done hrown,' " said Harry, mischievously, 
well knowing his horror of all modern slang. 

" I am no judge of colours "&di\di he, drily, " but I can tell a fool 
from a knave when I see them contrasted. In old times it was the 
woman's privilege to play the fool, but the order of things is re- 
versed now-a-days." So saying, he drew on his gloves, and walked 
out with his usual clock-like regularity. 

Three months passed away, and Harry Maurice was " full five 
fathoms deep" in love with the beautiful stranger. Yet he knew 
no more of her personal history than on the day when they first 
met, and the old question of " Who is she?" was often in his mind, 
though the respect growing out of a genuine attachment checked it 
ere the words rose to his lips. He heard her speak of plantations 



EMMA C. EMBURY, 145 

at the South, and on more than one occasion he had been favoured 
with a commission to transact banking business for her. He had 
made several deposits in her name, and had drawn out several small 
sums for her use. He knew therefore that she had moneys at com- 
mand, but of her family and connexions he was profoundly ignorant. 
He was too much in love, however, to hesitate long on this point. 
Young, ardent, and possessed of that pseudo-romance, which, like 
French gilding, so much resembles the i^eal thing that many prefer 
it, as being cheaper and more durable, he was particularly pleased 
with the apparent disinterestedness of his aifection. Too poor to 
marry unless he found a bride possessed of fortune, he was now pre- 
cisely in the situation where alone he could feel himself on the 
same footing with a wealthy wife. He had an established position 
in society, his family were among the oldest and most respectable 
residents of the State, and the offer of his hand under such circum- 
stances to a lone, unfriended stranger, took away all appearance 
of cupidity from the suitor, while it constituted a claim upon the 
lady's gratitude as well as affection. With all his assumed self- 
confidence, Maurice was in reality a very modest fellow, and he 
had many a secret misgiving as to her opinion of his merits ; for 
he was one of those youths who use puppyism as a cloak for their 
diffidence. He wanted to assure himself of her preference before 
committing himself by a declaration, and to do this required a 
degree of skill in womancraft that far exceeded his powers. 

In the mean time the prejudices of the Captain gained greater 
strength, and although there was no open war between him and the 
fair widow, there was perpetual skirmishing between them. Indeed 
it could not well be otherwise, considering the decided contrast be- 
tween the two parties. The Captain was prejudiced, dogmatic, and 
full of old-fashioned notions. A steady adherent of ruffled shirts, 
well-starched collars, and shaven chins, he regarded with contempt 
the paltry subterfuges of modern fashion. At five-and-twenty he 
had formed his habits of thinking and acting, and at sixty he was 
only the same man grown older. A certain indolence of temper 

prevented him from investigating anything new, and he was therefore 
19 



146 EMMA C. EMBURY. 

content to deny all that did not conform to his early notions. He 
hated fashionable slang, despised a new-modelled costume, scorned 
modern morality, and ranked the crime of wearing a moustache and 
imperial next to the seven deadly sins. His standard of female 
perfection was a certain "ladye-love" of his youth, who might have 
served as a second Harriet Byron to some new Sir Charles Grau- 
dison. After a courtship of ten years (during which time he never 
ventured upon a greater familiarity than that of pressing the tipa 
of her fingers to his lips on a New Year's day), the lady died, and 
the memory of his early attachment, though something like a rose 
encased in ice, was still the one flower of his life. 

Of course, the freedom of modern manners was shocking to him, 
and in Mrs. Howard he beheld the impersonation of vanity, 
coquetry, and falsehood. Besides, she interfered with his privi- 
leges. She made suggestions about certain arrangements at table ; 
she pointed out improvements in several minor household comforts ; 
she asked for the liver-wing of the chicken, which had heretofore 
been his peculiar perquisite, as carver ; she played the accordeon, 
and kept an Eolian harp in the window of her room, which unfor- 
tunately adjoined his ; and, to crown all, she did not hesitate to 
ask him questions as coolly as if she was totally unconscious of his 
privileges of privacy. He certainly had a most decided grudge 
against the lady, and she, though apparently all gentleness and 
meekness, yet had so adroit a way of saying and doing disagreea- 
ble things to the old gentleman, that it was easy to infer a mutual 
dislike. 

The Captain's benevolence had been excited by seeing Harry 
Maurice on the highroad to being victimized, and he actually took 
some pains to make the young man see things in their true light. 

" P-ray, Mr. Maurice, do you spend all your mornings at your 
office ?" said he one day. 

" Certainly, sir." 

" Then you diifer from most young lawyers," was the gruff reply. 

" Perhaps I have better reasons than many others for my close 
application. While completing my studies, I am enabled to earn 



EMMA C. EMBURY. I47 

a moderate salary by writing for Mr. , and this is of some 

consequence to me." 

The old man looked inquiringly, and Maurice answered the 
silent question. 

" You know enough of our family, sir, to be aware that my 
father's income died with him. A few hundred dollars per annum 
are all that remains for the support of my mother and an invalid 
sister, who reside in Connecticut. Of course, if I would not 
encroach upon their small means, I must do something for my 
own maintenance." 

The Captain's look grew pleasanter as he replied, " I do not 
mean to be guilty of any impertinent intrusion into your affairs, 
but it seems to me that you share the weakness of your fellows, by 
thus working like a slave and spending like a prince." 

Maurice laughed. "Perhaps my princely expenditures would 
scarcely bear as close a scrutiny as my slavish toil. I really work, 
but it often happens that I only seem to spend." 

" I understand you, but you are worthy of better things ; you 
should have courage to throw off the trammels of fashion, and live 
economically, like a man of sense, until fortune favours you." 

The young man was silent for a moment, then, as if to change 
the subject, asked, " What was your object in inquiring about my 
morning walks ?" 

"I merely wanted to know if you ever met Mrs. Howard in 
Broadway in the morning." 

" Never, sir ; but I am so seldom there, that it would be strange 
if I should encounter an acquaintance among its throngs." 

" I am told she goes out 'every morning at nine o'clock, and does 
not return until three." 

"I suppose she is fond of walking." 

"Humph! I rather suspect she has some regular business." 

" Quite likely," said Maurice, laughing heartily, "perhaps she 
is a bank clerk, — occupied from nine to three, you say, — just bank- 
ing hours." 

The Captain looked sternly in the young man's face, then utter- 
ing his emphatic "Fudge!" turned upon his heel, and whistling 



148 £MMA C. EMBURY. 

"A Frog lie "would a wooing go," sauntered out of the room, 
thoroughly disgusted with the whole race of modern young men. 

The old gentleman's methodical habits of business had ^Yon for 
him the confidence of every one, and as an almost necessary con- 
sequence had involved him in the responsibility of several trustee- 
ships. There were sundry old ladies and orphans whose pecuniary 
affairs he had managed for years with the punctuality of a Dutch 
clock. Before noon, on the days when their interest moneys were 
due, he always had the satisfaction of paying them into the hands 
of the owners. It was only for some such purpose that he ever 
left his post during business hours ; but the claims of the widow 
and the fatherless came before those of the ledger, and he some- 
times stole an hour from his daily duties to attend to these private 
trusts. 

Not long after he had sought to awaken his young friend's suspi- 
cions respecting Mrs. Howard, one of these occasions occurred. 
At midday he found himself seated in a pleasant drawing-room, 
between an old lady and a young one, both of whom regarded him 
as the very best of men. He had transacted his business and was 
about taking leave, when he was detained to partake of a lunch ; 
and, while he was engaged in washing down a biscuit with a glass 
of octogenarian Madeira, the young lady was called out of the room. 
She was absent about fifteen minutes, and when she returned, 
her eyes were full of tears. A pile of gold lay on the table 
(the Captain would have thought it ungentlemanlike to offer dirty 
paper to ladies), and taking a five-dollar piece from the heap, she 
again vanished. This time she did not quite close the door behind 
her, and it was evident she was conversing with some claimant upon 
her charity. Her compassionate tones were distinctly heard in the 
drawing-room, and when she ceased speaking, a remarkably soft, 
clear, liquid voice responded to her kindness. There was some- 
thing in these sounds which awakened the liveliest interest in the 
old gentleman. He started, fidgeted in his chair, and at length, 
fairly mastered by his curiosity, he stole on tiptoe to the door. He 
saw only a drooping figure, clad in mourning, and veiled from head 
to foot, who, repeating her thanks to her young benefactress, 



EMMA C. EMBURY. I49 

gathered up a roll of papers from the hall table, and withdrew 
before he could obtain a glimpse of her face. 

"What impostor have you been feeing now?" he asked, as the 
young lady entered the room, holding in her hand several cheap 
French engravings. 

"No impostor, my dear sir, but a most interesting woman." 

" Oh, I dare say she was very interesting and interested too, no 
doubt ; but how do you know she was no swindler ?" 

"Because she shed tears, real tears." 

" Humph ! I suppose she put her handkerchief to her eyes and 
snivelled." 

" No, indeed, I saw the big drops roll down her cheeks, and I 
never can doubt such an evidence of genuine sorrow ; people can't 
force tears." 

"What story could she tell which was worth five dollars ?" 

" Her husband, who was an importer of French stationary and 
engravings, has recently died insolvent, leaving her burdened with 
the support of two children and an infirm mother. His creditors 
have seized everything, excepting a few unsaleable prints, by the 
sale of which she is now endeavouring to maintain herself inde- 
pendently." 

"Are the prints worth anything?" 

"Not much." 

" Then she is living upon charity quite as much as if she begged 
from door to door; it is only a new method of levying contribu- 
tions upon people with more money than brains." 

" The truth of her statement is easily ascertained. I have pro- 
mised to visit her, and if I find her what she seems, I shall supply 
her with employment as a seamstress." 

" Will you allow me to accompany you on your visit ?" 

" Certainly, my dear sir, upon condition that if you find her 
story true, you will pay the penalty of your mistrust in the shape 
of a goodly donation." 

" Agreed ! I'll pay if she turns out to be an object of charity. 
But that voice of hers, — I don't believe there are ttvo such voices in 
this great city." 



150 EMMA C. EMBURY. 

What notion had now got into the crotchety head of the Cap- 
tain no one could tell ; but he certainly was in wonderful spirits 
that day at dinner. He was in such good humour that he was even 
civil to Mrs. Howard, and sent his own bottle of wine to Harry 
Maurice. He looked a little confounded when Mrs. Howard, 
taking advantage of his "melting mood," challenged him to a 
game at backgammon, and it was almost with his old gruflfness that 
he refused her polite invitation. He waited long enough to see 
her deeply engaged in chess with her young admirer, and then 
hurried away to fulfil his engagement with the lady who had pro- 
mised to let him share her errand of mercy. 

He was doomed to be disappointed, however. They found the 
house inhabited by the unfortunate Mrs. Harley : it was a low one- 
story rear building, in Street, the entrance to Avhich was 

through a covered alley leading from the street. It was a neat, 
comfortable dwelling, and the butcher's shop in front of it screened 
it entirely from public view. But the person of whom they were 
in quest was not at home. Her mother and two rosy children, 
however, seemed to corroborate her story, and as the woman seemed 
disposed to be rather communicative, the old gentleman fancied he 
had now got upon a true trail. But an incautious question from 
him sealed the woman's lips, and he found himself quite astray 
again. Finding nothing could be gained, he hurried away, and 
entering his own door, found Mrs. Howard still deeply engaged in 
her game of chess, though she did look up with a sweet smile when 
she saw him. 

A few days afterwards his young friend informed him that she 
had been more successful, having found Mrs. Harley just preparing 
to go out on her daily round of charity-seeking. 

When suspicions are once aroused in the mind of a man like the 
Captain, it is strange how industriously he puts together the 
minutest links in the chain of evidence, and how curiously he 
searches for such links, as if the unmasking of a rogue was really 
a matter of the highest importance. The Captain began to grow 
more reserved and incommunicative than ever. He uttered oracu- 
lar apothegms and dogmatisms until he became positively disagreea- 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 151 

bl3, and at last, as if to show an utter aberration of mind, he 
determined to obtain leave of absence for a week. It was a most 
remarkable event in his history, and as such excited much specula- 
tion. But the old gentleman's lips were closely buttoned ; he 
quietly packed a valise, and set out upon, what he called, a country 
excursion. 

It was curious to notice how much he was missed in the house. 
Some missed his kindliness ; some his quaint humorousness ; some 
his punctuality, by which they set their watches ; and Mrs. Howard 
seemed actually to feel the want of that sarcastic tone which made 
the sauce piquante of her dainty food. Where he actually went 
no one knew, but in four days he returned, looking more bilious 
and acting more crotchety than ever ; but with an exhilaration of 
spirits that showed the marvellous effect of country air. 

The day after his return, two men, wrapped in cloaks and wear- 
ing slouched hats, entered the butcher's shop in Street. Giv- 
ing a nod in passing to the man at the counter, the two proceeded 
up stairs, and took a seat at one of the back windows. The blinds 
were carefully drawn down, and they seated themselves as if to 
note all that passed in the low, one-story building, which opened 
upon a narrow paved alley directly beneath the window. 

" Do you know that we shall have a fearful settlement to make 
if this turns out to be all humbug ?" said the younger man, as they 
took their station. 

"Any satisfaction which you are willing to claim, I am ready to 
make, in case I am mistaken ; but — look there." 

As he spoke, a female wearing a large black cloak and thick veil 
entered the opposite house. Instantly a shout of joy burst from 
the children, and as the old woman rose to drop the blind at the 
window, they caught sight of the two merry little ones pulling at 
the veil and cloak of the mysterious lady. 

"Did you see her face?" asked the old man. 

"No, it was turned away from the window." 

" Then have patience for a while." 

Nearly an hour elapsed, and then the door again opened to 'admit 
the egress of a person, apparently less of stature than the woman 



152 EMMA C. EMBURY. 

who had so recently entered, more drooping in figure, and clad in 
rusty and shabby mourning. 

" One more kiss, mamma, and don't forget the sugar-plums when 
you come back," cried one of the children. 

The woman stooped to give the required kiss, lifting her veil as 
she did so, and revealing the whole of her countenance. A groan 
burst from the lips of one of the watchers, which was answered by 
a low chuckle from his companion ; for both the Captain and Harry 
Maurice had recognised in the mysterious lady the features of the 
bewitching Mrs. Howard. 

There is little more to tell. The question of "Who is she?" 
now needed no reply. Mrs. Howard, Mrs. Harley, and some dozen 
other aliases, were the names of an exceedingly genteel adventu- 
ress, who is yet vividly remembered by the charitable whom she 
victimized a few years since. She had resided in several large 
cities, and was drawing a very handsome income from her ingenu- 
ity. Her love of pleasure being as great as her taste for money- 
making, she devised a plan for living two lives at once, and her 
extreme mobility of feature, and exquisite adroitness, enabled her 
to carry out her schemes. How far she would have carried the 
affair with her young lover it is impossible to say, but the probabi- 
lity is that the "love affair" was only an agreeable episode '■''pour 
passer le terns,'' and that whatever might have been the gentle- 
man's intentions, the lady was guiltless of ulterior views. 

The Captain managed the affair his own way. He did not wish 
to injure the credit of the house, which he designed to call his home 
for the rest of his life, and therefore Mrs. Howard received a quiet 
intimation to quit, which she obeyed with her usual unruffled sweet- 
ness. Harry Maurice paid a visit to his mother and sister in the 
country, and on his return found it desirable to change his lodgings. 
The Captain kept the story to himself for several years, but after 
Maurice was married, and settled in his domestic habitudes, he felt 
himself privileged to use it as a warning to all gullible young men, 
against bewitching widows, and mysterious fellow-boarders. 



MARY S. B. SHINDLER. 

(late MRS. MART S. B. DANA.) 

The Southern muse has had few harps that have awakened a warmer 
echo than that of Mrs. Mary S. B. Dana, now Mrs. Shindler. Born and 
nurtured upon Southern soil, her fame has been cherished with peculiar 
affection in the region of her birth, while her name has been no unfami- 
liar or unwelcome guest in Northern hearts and homes. 

Mrs. Shindler was born in Beaufort, South Carolina, February 15, 1810. 
Her maiden name was Mary Stanley Bunce Palmer. She was the daugh- 
ter of the Bev. Benjamin M. Palmer, D. D., who at the time of her birth 
was pastor of the Independent or Congregational church in Beaufort. In 
1814 her parents removed to Charleston, her father having been called to 
the charge of the Independent church in that city. Her father's congre- 
gation consisted principally of planters of the neighbourhood, who spent 
their summers in the city, and their winters upon their plantations. 

In reference to this period of her life, Mrs. Shindler remarks, "1 well 
remember the delight with which we children used to anticipate our spring 
and Christmas holidays, which we were sure to spend upon some neigh- 
bouring plantation, released from all our city trammels, running perfectly 
wild, as all city children were expected to do, contracting sudden and vio- 
lent intimacies in all the negro houses about Easter and Christmas times, 
that we might have a store of eggs for sundry purposes, for which we ga-ve 
in exchange the most gaudy cotton handkerchiefs that could be bought in 
Charleston. It was during these delightful rural visits that what little 
poetry I have in my nature was fostered and developed, and at an early 
age I became sensible of a something within me which often brought tears 
into my eyes when I could not, for the life of me, express my feelings. 
The darkness and loneliness of our vast forests filled me with indescribable 
emotions, and above all other sounds, the music of the thousand Eolian 

20 (153) 



154 MARY S. B. SHINDLER. 

harps sighing and wailing through a forest of pines, was most aifecting to 
my youthful heart." 

Besides the advantage of the best Southern society, she had also the 
opportunity of most extensive acquaintance with clergymen and others 
from various Northern States — the hospitality of her parents being 
unbounded. 

She was educated by the Misses Ramsay, the daughters of Dr. David 
Ramsay, the historian, and grand-daughters, on the maternal side, of Mr. 
Laurens, who figured so conspicuously in the early history of our Inde- 
pendence. The summer of 1825 her parents spent in Hartford, Conn., and 
she was placed for sis months at the seminary of the Rev. Mr. Emerson, 
in the neighbouring town of Wethersfield. In 1826 she was placed at a 
young ladies' seminary in Elizabethtown, New Jersey, with the expecta- 
tion of remaining eighteen months, in the hope that so long a residence 
in the North would invigorate her constitution, which was rather delicate; 
but she pined for her Southern home, and at the expiration of six months 
was allowed to return to the arms of her parents. She subsequently spent 
several months at the seminary of the Rev. Claudius Herrick, in New 
Haven. 

On the 19th of June, 1835, she became the wife of Mr. Charles E. 
Dana, and accompanied him to the city of New York, where they resided 
for two or three years. During this time she occasionally wrote little 
pieces of poetry, but did not publish them. Before her marriage, how- 
ever, she had written considerably for the '■'■ Rose-Bud," a juvenile period- 
ical published in Charleston by Mrs. Grilman. 

The tone of subdued melancholy that pervades her first publications is 
explained by the sad story of her afflictions, which can be told in no way 
so well as in her own simple and affecting language. 

"In the fall of the year 1838," says she, in a letter now before me, 
"accompanied by my parents, we removed to the West. I was then the 
mother of a beautiful boy, who was born in May, 1837. We spent the 
winter in Cincinnati, and, as soon as the river rose in the spring, we all 
went to New Orleans. While in that city, a letter was received from 
Alabama, acquainting my parents with the fact that my only brother, who 
was a physician, and was on a tour of inspection for the purpose of finding a 
pleasant location for the practice of his profession, was in Grreene county, 
sick, and failing rapidly. A favourite sister had died of consumption at 
my house in New York, just a week after the birth of our little boy, and 
the news of my brother's illness filled us with the saddest apprehensions. 
The letter, too, bore rather an old date, having first being mailed to Cin- 
cinnati, and forwarded from thence to New Orleans. My afflicted parents 
immediately hastened to the spot, but they arrived too late even to take 
a last fond look upon their only son. He had been buried several days 



MARY S. B. SHINDLER. 155 

when they arrived. Almost heart-broken, yet submissive to the dreadful 
stroke, they returned to New Orleans, but instead of accompanying us in 
our western journey, they decided to return to Charleston. 

'■'■ In a short time we also embarked in a steamer for St. Louis, where we 
remained for a month or six weeks. We then ascended the Mississippi as 
far as Bloomington, Iowa ; at which place we landed, and we were so much 
pleased with the appearance of the place, that we decided on sjDending the 
summer there. The place had been settled about three years, and con- 
tained nearly or quite three hundred inhabitants, and had, so far, proved 
quite healthy. But the summer of 1839 was a very sickly one. There 
was a long-continued drought; the Mississippi river was unusually low, 
and the consequence was the prevalence of congestive fevers in all that 
region. Indeed, throughout the whole West and South, it was a summer 
long to be remembered. 

" I was the first to take the fever, and had scarcely recovered, when our 
little Charlie, our only child, became alarmingly ill. The only experienced 
physician in the village was likewise ill, so that we laboured under a 
serious disadvantage. After lingering for a fortnight the dear little fellow 
died. Two days before his death, my husband was taken with the same 
fever, and also died, after an illness of only four days. Nothing but the 
consolations of religion could have supported me under this double bereave- 
ment. Left entirely alone, thousands of miles away from every relative I 
had on earth, there was no human arm on which I could lean, and I was 
to rely on God alone. It was well, perhaps, for me, that I was just so 
situated. It has taught me a lesson that I have never forgotten, that our 
heavenly Father will never lay upon us a heavier burthen than he will 
give us strength to bear. And- here I must record my warm and grateful 
tribute to the genuine kindness and sympathy of Western hearts. If I 
had been among my own kindred, I could not have received moi'e earnest 
and affectionate attention. 

" As soon as I could settle my affairs, and find suitable protection, I 
started for my distant home, longing to lay my aching head on the bosom 
of my own dear mother, and to be encircled in my father's arms. 

'' I was received in St. Louis with the greatest kindness, and remained 
there for a week. Placed under the charge of a kind physician, we took 
a steamer for Cincinnati, but found the river so low, it would be next to 
impossible to reach there. After sticking fast upon every sand-bar we 
encountered for a day or two, the captain all the while assuring us that 
we should soon arrive at Cincinnati, we determined to take advantage of 
the first boat that passed us, and return to the Mississippi. Nor was it 
long before we were enabled to put this design into execution. 

" In New Orleans the fever was raging to an alarming degree. My 
kind protector had now reached his home, and could accompany me no 



156 MARY S. B. SHINDLER. 

further, and I could hear of no one who was going in my direction at that 
season of the year — the human tide was all setting the other way. At 
length a friend called to inform me that a schooner was about to sail for 
Pensacola. Knowing my intense anxiety to reach home, he had called to 
let me know of the opportunity, thinking that from Pensacola I would be 
able to reach Charleston without difSculty, though, for his own part, he 
strongly advised me not to attempt going in the schooner. But I had 
grown desperate, and caught eagerly at the proposal. Accordingly, that 
very afternoon, I was conducted to the schooner by my friend, and intro- 
duced to the captain, who kindly promised to take good care of me. I 
must confess my heart almost failed me when, after crossing the deck on 
the tops of barrels, with which the vessel was loaded, I dived into a cabin, 
dark, low, and musty, and found that I was the only female on board. 

" But the case was a desperate one, and I submitted to necessity, but 
bade my friend 'farewell' with a heavy heart. We were towed down the 
canal by horses to the entrance of Lake Ponchartrain, where we were 
quietly to lie till the next morning. Never shall I forget the sufferings 
of that dreadful night. The cabin was infested with roaches of an enor- 
mous size, and as soon as candles were lighted, they came out of their 
hiding-places by hundreds and thousands, and literally covered the bed 
where I was to sleep. Mosquitos also were swarming around ; but this 
was not all. 1 was taken so ill that it seemed as if I could not live till 
morning. I shudder even now when I think of it. 

" By daylight I called the captain to my side and begged him to get 
me back to the city. He said there was a schooner which had just come 
in from the lake, and was going up to the city^, and offered to put me 
aboard of her. I joyfully consented, and he took me in his arms like an 
infant, carried me on board of the newly-arrived schooner, and seated me 
in a chair on a pile of wet boards, of which her cargo appeared to consist. 
After two or three hours of intense suffering, for I was really very sick, 
I once more reached my friends in New Orleans, who were overjoyed to 
see me, and who fully determined to prevent me, by force, if necessary, 
from making any more such travelling experiments. In a few days the 
steamer between New Orleans and Pascagoula commenced running, and 
finding company, I at length reached home in safety." 

To give herself mental occupation, she now began to indulge in literary 
pursuits. She had always been very fond of music, and finding very little 
piano music that was suitable for Sunday playing, she had for several 
years been in the habit of adapting sacred words to any song which par- 
ticularly pleased her. To wean her from her sorrows, her parents encou- 
raged her to continue the practice, and this was the origin of the first 
work she published, " The Southern Harp." At first she had no idea of 
publishing these little eff"usions, but having written quite a number of 
them, she was advised to print a few for the use of herself and friends. 



MARY S. B. SHINDLER. 157 

The work, however grew under her hands, till finally, becoming much 
interested in the design, she decided to publish, not only the words, but 
the music. She visited New York for this purpose in 1840, and the work 
appeared early in 1841. 

She now used her pen almost incessantly. It is not wonderful that her 
thoughts ran principally upon the subject of affliction, nor that the scenes 
through which she had passed during her short sojourn at the West, should 
have formed the theme of her muse. 

In the summer of 1841 she again visited New York for the purpose of 
publishing a volume of poems. This appeared under the title of "■ The 
Parted Family, and other Poems." She undertook, also, at the request 
of her publishers, to prepare another volume similar in design to the 
" Southern Harp," to be published under the title of the '' Northern 
Harp." Both of these publications succeeded well. They passed through 
several large editions, and in a pecuniary way were very profitable, more 
than twenty-five thousand copies having been sold. 

Her next publication was a prose work, entitled " Charles Morton ; or, 
the Young Patriot;" a tale of the American Revolution. This, also, was 
very successful. It was issued in the early part of the year 1843. 

She next published two tales for seamen. The title of the first was 
"The Young Sailor," and of the other, "Forecastle Tom." 

About this time she experienced a change in her religious views, which 
attracted considerable attention, and led to her next publication. She 
had been bred a Calvinist, but during the year 1844 she began to enter- 
tain doubts about the doctrine of the Trinity, and finally, to the grief of 
her revered parents, and numerous friends, early in the year 1845, she 
avowed herself a Unitarian. 

The matter having become one of some notoriety, she felt called upon 
to publish a volume of " Letters to Relatives and Friends," stating the 
process through which her mind had passed. This, by far the largest of 
her prose volumes, appeared in Boston, in the fall of 1845, and was re- 
published in London. It went through several editions, and was finally 
stereotyped. 

In 1847 she wrote several " Southern Sketches," the first of which 
appeared in the " Union Magazine" for October of that year. 

At this time another severe affliction befell her. This was the sudden 
death, within two or three weeks of each other, of both her parents, at 
Orangeburg, South Carolina. 

On the 18th of May, 1848, she became united in marriage to her pre- 
sent husband, the Rev. Robert D. Shindler, a clergyman of the Episcopal 
Church. Her views on the subject of the Trinity have also experienced 
a change, or rather have reverted to their original condition, and she is 
now in communion with the church of her husband. 



153 MARY S. B. SHIXDLER. 

In April, 1S50, Mr. aud Mrs. Shiudler removed to Upper ^larlboro', 
Mary laud, near to his native place, which was Shephardstown, Virginia. 

In August, 1S51, they removed to Shelbyville, Kentucky, Mr. Shiudler 
having accepted a Professorship in Shelby College. 



A DAY IX XEW YORK. 

Here I am in Xew York — tlio groat, busy, bustling world of 
Xew Y'ork : and after uiv year's rustication in a quiet Southern 
village, you may be sure that my poor little head is almost turned ! 
Even now, while I am writing, there is a diabolical hand-organ, 
grinding under the window its mechanical music, w^itli a disgusting 
little monkey — a caricature upon poor humanity — playing its ''fan- 
tastic tricks before high heaven !" Do not, I entreat you, suppose 
me in a pet, for after all, I acknowledge that hand-organs, and 
even monkeys, have their uses, as well as their abuses, and may, 
by a serious philosophizing mind, be turned to very good account ; 
but, just at this moment, I may perhaps be pardoned for Avishing 
them somewhere else. 

Ah ! now comes a baud of music — real music ! breathed through 
various instruments by the breath of human beings, playing in 
accordance, keeping mutual time, obeying the same harmonious 
impulses, now delighting the ear and aflecting the heart by a soft 
and plaintive strain, and now stirring the spirit by a burst of mar- 
tial melody ; yes, that is music ; there is mind, there is soul, there 
is impulse, there is character in what I now hear, and you must 
excuse me while I hasten to the open window, and linger there till 
I catch the faintest echo of the rapidly-retreating harmony. 
There ! It is gone — ^like so many of life's pleasures — only to linger 
in the memory. Well ! God be praised for that ! 

Day before yesterday I visited Greenwood, your beautiful ceme- 
tery. Oh, I wish I could reveal to you all the secret and varied 
workings of the mind within, as I wandered with a chosen friend — 
a kindred spirit — through that beautiful and consecrated ground. 
Thoughts too big for utterance — too spiritual and mysterious to be 
clothed in words — came crowding thick and fast upon me, till at 
length I could contain mvself no longer, and the tide of softened 



MART S. B. SHINDLER. 159 

feeling overflowed its barriers ; for tears, not liitter tears, came 
trickling down each cheek. To add to the solemn interest of the 
occasion, the bell was tolling for a funeral. It was the funeral of 
a little Southern boy, who had died while pursuing his studies in 
one of the city schools. His young school companions, all in uni- 
form, and each with a badge of mourning hanging from the left 
elbow, marched solemnly and silently to deposit the mortal remains 
of the youthful stranger in his Northern grave ! My busy mind 
instantly wandered to his home and mine, in the land of the sunny 
South ! Had he a father ? Had he a mother ? Had he brothers 
and sisters w^ho were yet to learn the mournful tidings that the 
dear little fellow who had left them, recently perhaps, in all the 
healthful buoyancy of his young existence, had closed his eyes in 
a land of strangers, and was sleeping his last sleep so far away 
from his Southern home ? Or, was he an orphan, whose young 
days had been shaded by sorrow ? Then, perhaps, he had gone to 
join the sainted dead ! Then, perhaps, he had gone to complete a 
family in heaven ! Glorious, delightful, soothing thought ! At 
any rate, I knew that his young spirit was in the keeping of an 
infinitely-merciful Father, and there, well cared for, I was content 
to leave the little Southern boy. 

Near the entrance, sat a lady clad in the habiliments of the 
deepest mourning. She had been, probably, or was going, to the 
grave of some loved one, "to weep there," as Jesus did ! She had 
been mitigating or increasing the pangs of separation by the views 
and feelings she had been indulging at that loved one's grave ! 
Perhaps her sorrow was a sanctified sorrow, and she had meekly 
yielded up the chosen one of her heart, at the summons of her 
Heavenly Father, resolved to wait patiently for the period of a 
blissful reunion. If so, she had experienced the truth of the 
Saviour's words — '■'■ Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be 
comforted !" But if not, if, in the insanity of grief, she had been 
dwelling on the past, disregarding the injunction of the apostle to 
forget the things which are behind, and press forward to those 
which are before, how doubly was she to be pitied ! Ah, mourning 
heart ! didst thou but know that when we view the matter rightly, 



160 MARY S. B. S HIND LEE. 

the dead are "witli us, more potently and beneficially than they 
were in life, thy sorrow would be turned into a pensive joy, creating 
within thee and around thee precious and purifying influences ! 

I pass by the splendid monuments which attract the attention 
of every stranger, to mention one which arrested my footsteps by 
its exceeding simplicity and beauty. It was a plain white marble 
shaft, upon which was inscribed one single word, and that was 
"Mary." I always loved the name, but Avas never before so 
struck with its unpretending beauty. It was the name of the 
virgin-mother of our Lord, it was the name of her Avhom Jesus 
loved, and of the erring one whose pardon he pronounced so gra- 
ciously. And here it was, to designate the resting-place of a 
youthful wife who had but recently departed to her eternal home. 
What a world of meaning must that one word convey to the 
bereaved husband, when, solitary as he must be now, his lonely 
footsteps seek that sacred spot ! Let me tell thee, sorrowing hus- 
band, thy Mary is not lost to thee, she has but "gone before;" 
and if thou hearest and heedest well the voice which issues from 
that marble tablet, it shall be well with thee ! They never can be 
lost to us, whose memories we love ! 

Here lie thine ashes, dearest Mary ! 

AVhile thy spirit shines above ; 
And this earth so fresh and verdant, 

But reminds us of thy love. 

Those who knew thy heart, sweet Mary ! 

Knew how pure its throbbings were ; 
O'er that heart, which throbs no longer, 

Memory sheds her purest tear. 

Yes, the tender mourning, Mary ! 

And the blank felt in thy home, 
Live as freshly in our bosoms 

As the rose-leaves o'er thy tomb. 

Thou wert ever gentle, Mary ! 

All our comfort and our pride ; 
Now that thou art gone to heaven, 

Oh! to heaven our spirits guide ! 



MARY S. B. SHINDLER. 161 

Be our guardian angel, Mary ! 

Be our brilliant polar star ! 
From earth's storms, and clouds, and darkness, 

Lead us to bright realms afar. 

And when from earth's loud turmoil, Mary ! 

To this holy spot we turn, 
Let the mem'ry of thy meekness 

Teach us, loved one, how to mourn ! 

I saw, too, the monument which has been recently erected over 
the grave of Dr. Abeel, the Chinese missionary. I knew and loved 
him well, and yet my feelings, when I stood beside his grave, had 
not a tinge of sadness ! Indeed, why should they have ? He had 
fought the good fight, he had finished his course, he had kept the 
faith, and I knew that he was in actual possession of his crown of 
glory ! It was, then, a time and a place for joy and for triumph, 
and not for mourning and despondency. The Christian hero had 
gone to his reward, was that a cause for sadness ? 

I have not emptied my heart of half its tide of feeling, but I must 
forbear ; time would fail me, and perhaps your patience also, were 
I to attempt it. Have you ever noticed, in your Greenwood ram- 
bles, a deeply-shaded spot, most appropriately labelled " Twilight 
Dell?" 'Tis there I would like to lay my weary head, when the 
toils and cares of life are over ! Next to a grave in the far-distant 
West, where some of my loved ones sleep, or in my own Southern 
home, where my kindred lie, would I prefer one in the beautifully- 
shaded Twilight Dell of Greenwood. 



21 



CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ. 



Miss Caroline Lee Whiting (the maiden name of Mrs. ITcutz) was 
boru in the romantic village of Lancaster, Massachusetts. She is the 
daui^litcr of General John Whiting, and the sister of the brave General 
Wiiiting, distinguished alike for his literary attainments, and for his ser- 
vices in the army of the United States. She was married in 1825, to 
Mr. N. M. ITeutz, a French gentleman, of rich and varied talents, who 
then conducted a seminary of education at Northampton, in conjunction 
with Mr. Bancroft, the historian. In the early days of their married life, 
Mr. rientz was appointed Professor in the College at Chapel Hill, North 
Carolina. He accepted the honourable post, and remained there several 
years. Thence they removed to Covington, Kentucky, where she wrote 
the tragedy of "De Lara, or the Moorish Bride." This play was offered 
as a competitor for a prize of five hundred dollars, and was successful. It 
was performed at the Arch Street Theatre, Philadelphia, and I believe 
elsewhere, with much applause, and for several successive nights. The copy- 
right having reverted to Mrs. Ilentz, it was subsequently published in 
book form. 

The family, after living awhile at Covington, removed to Cincinnati, 
and thence to Florence, Alabama. At this latter place they had for nine 
years a flourishing Female Academy, which in 1843 they transferred to 
Tuscaloosa, and again in 18-15 to Tuskegee, and once more, in 1848, to 
Columbus, Georgia, where they now reside. The exhausting labours of 
their school, much of which fell upon Mrs. Heutz, caused her for several 
years almost to suspend the exercise of her pen. It is understood that 
she haa recently made arrangements which will give her leisure for the 
more free exercise of her extraordinary gifts as a writer. 

Besides the ti-agedy already named, Mrs. Hentz has written two others, 
"Lamorah, or the Western Wilds," published in a Columbus newspaper, 
and '' Constance of Wirtenibcrg," which has not yet seen the light. She 
has published many fugitive pieces of poetry, which have been widely 
copied. 

(102) 




/ 




CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 163 

Her prose writings have been chiefly in the form of novelettes for the 
weekly papers and the monthly magazines. After a wide circulation in 
this form, they have been generally reprinted as books, and enjoyed the 
eclat of numerous editions. They are "Aunt Patty's Scrap Bag," 1846; 
" The Mob Cap," 1848 ; ''Linda, or the Young Pilot of the Belle Creole," 
1850; " Rena, or the Snowbird," 1851 ; " Marcus Warland, or The Long 
Moss Spring," and "Eoline, or Magnolia Vale," in 1852; "Wild Jack," 
and " Helen and Arthur, or Miss Thusa's Spinning Wheel," in 1853 ; 
and ''The Planter's Northern Bride," in 1854. The last work, but 
recently published, is the longest and most elaborate which has yet issued 
from her pen, and critics from various parts of the country have united to 
place it in the first rank of American novels. 

Every one practically conversant with the art of composition, knows 
that those works which, to the uninitiated, seem to have been written 
currente calavio — dashed oif at full speed — are ordinarily the fruit of slow 
and patient labour. Mrs. Hentz appears to be an exception to this rule. 
The spontaneousness and freedom so apparent in her style are a true ex- 
ponent of her habit of composition. Her happy facility in this respect 
reminds us of that most remarkable poetical improvisatrice, Mrs. Osgood. 
Mrs. Hentz, if we may credit authentic information, writes in the midst 
of her domestic circle, and subject to constfint interruptions, yet with the 
greatest rapidity, and with a degree of accuracy that seldom requires, as 
it never receives revision. 

One long an inmate of the household, writes to me on this subject as 
follows : "What has often struck me with wonder in regard to Mrs. Hentz, 
is the remarkable ease with which she writes. When a leisure moment 
presents itself, she takes up her pen, as others do their knitting, and it 
dances swiftly over the paper, as if in vain trying to keep up with the 
current of her thoughts. ' Aunt Patty's Scrap Bag' was written while I 
was living in the family, and as at evening I sat at her table, I read it 
sheet by sheet, ere the ink was dry from her pen, and on every page I 
saw, in the record of the affectionate family of the Worths, and particu- 
larly in the tender relations between Mrs. Worth and her daughters, a 
faithful transcript of the author's own heart. 

" Pardon me if I introduce a few lines which she dashed off hastily for 
me, while I stood waiting for the coach, the day I left her at Tuskegee. 
Though simple, they are in many respects a comment upon her heart, and 
the chief object of her pen. I give them from memory. 

"May this ring, when it circles thy finger, remind 
Thy heart of the friends thou art leaving behind — 
I have breathed on its gold a magical spell — 
That, in long after years, of this moment shall tell. 



164 CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 

"Should snares and temptations around tliee entwine, 
May the gem on thy finger with Avarning rays shine — 
And whisper of one whose spii'it would mourn 
If thou from the pathway of virtue shouldst turn. 

" Like the eaglet, that fixes its gaze on the sun. 
Press upward and on till the bright goal is won — 
Let the wings of thy soul never pause in their flight, 
Till they bear thee to regions of glory and light." 

I am indebted to an accomplished lady of Mobile* for the following 
additional particulars in relation to Mrs. Hentz. 

" Some writer has said, ' Authors should be read — not known.' Mrs. 
Hentz forms a bright exception to this remark. She is one of those rare 
magnetic women who attracted my entire admiration at our first interview. 
The spell she wove around me was like the invisible beauty of music. I 
yielded willingly and delightfully to its magic influence. 

"Never have I met a more fascinating person. Mind is enthroned on 
her noble brow, and beams in the flashing glances of her radiant eyes 
She is tall, graceful, and dignified, with that high-bred manner which ever 
betokens gentle blood. 

"She has infinite tact and talent in conversation, and never speaks 
without awakening interest. As I listened to her eloquent language, I 
felt she was indeed worthy of the wreath of immortality, which fame has 
given in other days, and other lands, to a De Genlis, or to a Dc Sevigne. 

" She possesses great enthusiasm of character — the enthusiasm described 
by Madame De Stael, as ' God within us,' — the love of the good, the holy, 
the beautiful. She has neither pretension nor pedantry, and, although 
admirably accomplished, and a perfect classic and belles lettres scholar, 
she has all the sweet simplicity of an elegant woman. 

"Like the charming Swedish authoress, Fredrika Bremer, her works 
all tend to elevate the tone of moral feeling. There is a refinement, deli- 
cacy, and poetic imagery in all her historiettes, touchingly delightful. A 

* Madame Octavia Walton Le Vert. " This accomplished lady has for many 
years dispensed the refined and elegant hospitalities of Mobile, and is the centre of 
a circle unsurpassed for its wit, worth, and intelligence. She is the daughter of 
the no less celebrated Colonel George Walton, formerly Governor of Florida, who 
now is, we believe, the only surviving son of a signer of the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence. — (Editor of the Spirit of the Times.) 

Though Madame Le Vert has not appeared before the world as an authoress, no 
lady in the Southern States has been more admired for her fascinating powers of 
conversation, and for those brilliant accomplishments which adorn the social circle. 
She converses with ease and elegance in several of the modern languages, and 
excels in all the graces of her sex; foreigners of distinction, who visit Mobile, 
generally bear letters of introduction to her elegant and hospitable home. 



CAROLINE LEE HEN TZ. 165 

calm and holy religion is mirrored in every page. The sorrow-stricken 
mourner finds therein the sweet and healing balm of consolation, and the 
hitter tears cease to flow when she points to that 'better land' where the 
loved and the lost are waiting for us. 

•'Many of her works are gay and spirituel, full of delicate wit, 'bright 
as the flight of a shining arrow.' Often have the smiles long exiled from 
the lips, returned at the bidding of her merry muse. Home, especially, 
she describes with a truthfulness which is enchanting. She seems to 
have dipped the pen in her own soul, and written of its emotions. She 
exalts all that is good, noble, or generous in the human heart, and gives 
to even the clouds of existence a sunny softness, like the dreamy light of 
a Claude Lorraine picture." 



AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP BAG. 

It was a rainy day, a real, old-fashioned, orthodox rainy day. 
It rained the first thing in the morning, it rained harder and harder 
at midday. The afternoon was drawing to a close, and still the 
rain came down in steady and persevering drops, every drop falling 
in a decided and obstinate "way, as if conscious, though it might be 
ever so unwelcome, no one had a right to oppose its coming. A 
rainy day in midsummer is a glorious thing. The grass looks up 
so green and grateful under the life-giving moisture ; the flowers 
send forth such a delicious aroma ; the tall forest-trees bend down 
their branches so gracefully in salutation to the messengers of 
heaven. There are beauty, grace, and glory in a midsummer rain, 
and the spirit of man becomes gay and buoyant under its influence. 
But a March rain in New England, when the vane of the weather- 
cock points inveterately to the north-east, when the brightness, and 
purity, and iwsitiveness of winter is gone, and not one promise of 
spring breaks cheeringly on the eye, is a dismal concern. 

Little Estelle stood looking out at the window, with her nose 
pressed against a pane of glass, wishing it would clear up, it was 
so pretty to see the sun break out just as he was setting. The 
prospect abroad was not very inviting. It was a patch of mud and 
a patch of snow, the dirtiest mixture in nature's olio. A little boy 
went slumping by, sinking at every step almost to his knees ; then 
a carriage slowly and majestically came plashing along, its wheels 



lOG CAROLINE LEE HE NT Z. 

buried in mud, the horses labouring and straining, and every now 
and then shaking the slime indignantly from their fetlocks, and 
probably thinking none but amphibious animals should be abroad 
in such weather. 

" Oh ! it is such an ugly, ugly day !" said Estcllc, " I do wish it 
were over." 

"You should not find fault with the weather," replied Emma; 
"mother says it is wicked, for God sends us Avhat Avcathcr sccmeth 
good to him. For my part, I have had a very happy day reading 
and sewing." 

"And I too," said Bessy, "but I begin to be tired now, and I 
wish I could see some of those beautiful crimson clouds, tinged with 
gold, that Avait upon sunset." 

" Bessy has such a romantic mode of expression," cried Edmund, 
laughing and laying down his book ; " I think she will make a poet 
one of these days. Even now, I see upon her lips ' a prophetess's 
fire.'" 

Bessy's blue eyes peeped at her brother through her golden curls, 
and something in them seemed'to say, " that is not such a ridiculous 
prophecy as you imagine." 

" This is a dreadful day for a traveller," said Mrs. Worth, with 
a sigh, and the children all thought of their father, exposed to the 
inclemency of the atmosphere, and they echoed their mother's sigh. 
They all looked very sad, till the entrance of another member of 
the family turned their thoughts into a noAV channel. This was no 
other than Estclle's kitten, which had been perambulating in the 
mire and rain, till she looked the most forlorn object in the world. 
Her sides were hollow and dripping, and her tail clung to her back 
in a most abject manner. There was a simultaneous exclamation 
at her dishevelled appearance, but Miss Kitty walked on as de- 
murely as if nothing particular had happened to her, and jumping 
on her little mistress's shoulder, cui-led her wet tail round her ears, 
and began to mew and purr, opening and shutting her green eyes 
between every purr. Much as Estclle loved her favourite, she Avas 
not at all pleased at her present proximity, and called out ener- 
getically for deliverance. All laughed long and heartily at the 



CAROLINE LEE HE NTZ. 167 

muddj streaks on her white neck, and the muddy tracks on her 
white apron, and she looked as if she had not made up her mind 
whether to laugh or crj, when a fresh burst of laughter produced o 
complete reaction, and a sudden shower of tears fell precipitately 
on Aunt Patty's lap. 

"Take care, Estelle," said Edmund, "Aunt Patty has got on 
her thunder and lightning calico. She does not like to have it 
rained on." 

Aunt Patty had a favourite frock, the ground-work of which was 
a deep brown, with zigzag streaks of scarlet darting over it. Es- 
telle called it thunder and lightning, and certainly it was a very 
appropriate similitude for a child. It always was designated by 
that name, and Edmund declared, that whenever Aunt Patty wore 
that dress, it was sure to bring a storm. She was now solicited by 
many voices to bring out one of her scrap-bags for their amusement. 
And she, who never wearied of recalling the bright images of her 
youthful fancy, or the impressions of later years, produced a gi- 
gantic satchel, and undrawing the strings, Estelle's little hand was 
plunged in, and grasping a piece by chance, smiles played like sun- 
beams on her tears, when she found it was a relic of old Parson 
Broomfield's banian. It consisted of broad shaded stripes, of an 
iron-gray colour, a very sober and ministerial-looking calico. 

"Ahf" said Aunt Patty — the chords of memory wakened to 
music at the sight — " I remember the time when I first saw Par- 
son Broomficld wear that banian. I was a little girl then, and my 
mother used to send me on errands here and there, in a little car- 
riage, made purposely for me on account of my lameness. A boy 
used to draw me, in the same way that they do infants, and every- 
body stopped and said something to the poor lame girl. I was 
going by the parsonage, one warm summer morning, and the par- 
son was sitting reading under a large elm tree, that grew directly 
in front of his door. He had a bench put all round the trunk, so 
that weary travellers could stop and rest under its shade. He was 
a blessed man. Parson Broomfield — of such great piety, that some 
thought if they could touch the hem of his garment they would 
have a passport to heaven. I always think of him when I read 



168 CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 

that beautiful verse in Job : ' The young men saw him and trem- 
bled, the aged arose and stood up.' Well, there he sat, that warm 
summer morning, in his new striped banian, turned back from his 
neck, and turned carelessly over one knee, to keep it from sweep- 
ing on the grass. He had on black satin lasting pantaloons, and 
a black velvet waistcoat, that made his shirt collar look as white ai 
snow. He lifted his eyes, when he heard the wheels of my car- 
riage rolling along, and made a sort of motion for me to stop. 
' Good morning, little Patty,' said he, ' I hope you are very well 
this beautiful morning.' We always thought it an honour to get a 
word from his lips, and I felt as if I could walk without a crutch the 
whole day. He was very kind to little children, though he looked 
so grand and holy in the pulpit, you would think he was an angel 
of light, just come down there from the skies." 

"Did he preach in that calico frock?" asked Emma, anxious for 
the dignity of the ministerial office. 

" Oh ! no, child — all in solemn black, except his white linen 
bands. He always looked like a saint on Sunday, walking in the 
church so slow and stately, yet bowing on the right and left, to the 
old, white-headed men, that waited for him as for the consolation 
of Israel. Oh ! he was a blessed man, and he is in glory now. 
Here," added she, taking a piece of spotless linen from a white 
folded paper, " is a remnant of the good man's shroud. I saw him 
when he was laid out, with his hands folded on his breast, and his 
Bible resting above them." 

"Don't they have any Bibles in Heaven?" asked little Estelle, 
shrinking from contact with the funereal sample. 

" No, child ; they will read there without books, and see without 
eyes, and know everything without learning. But they put his 
Bible on his heart, because he loved it so in life, and it seemed to 
be company for him in the dark coffin and lonely grave." 

The children looked serious, and Emma's wistful eyes, lifted 
towards heaven, seemed to long for that region of glorious intui- 
tion, whither the beloved pastor of Aunt Patty's youth was gone. 
Then the youngest begged her to tell them something more lively, 



CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 169 

as talking about death, and the coffin, and grave, made them 
melancholy such a rainy day. 

"Here," said Bessy, "is a beautiful pink and white muslin. 
The figure is a half open rosebud, with a delicate cluster of leaves. 
Who had a dress like this. Aunt Patty?" 

" That was the dress your mother wore the first time she saw 
your father," answered the chronicler, with a significant smile. 
Bessy clasped her hands with delight, and they all gathered close, 
to gaze upon an object associated with such an interesting era. 

"Didn't she look sweet?" said Bessy, looking admiringly at her 
handsome and now blushing mother. 

" Yes ! her cheeks were the colour of her dress, and that day 
she had a wreath of roses in her hair ; for Emma's father loved 
flowers, and made her ornament herself with them to please his 
eye. It was about sunset. It had been very sultry, and the roads 
were so dusty we could scarcely see after a horse or carriage passed 
by. Emma was in the front yard watering some plants, when a 
gentleman on horseback rode slowly along, as if he tried to make 
as little dust as possible. He rode by the house at first, then turn- 
ing back, he came right up to the gate, and, lifting up his hat, 
bowed down to the saddle. He was a tall, dark-complexioned 
young man, who sat nobly on his horse, just as if he belonged to 
it. Emma, your mother that is, set down her watering-pot, and 
made a sort of courtesy, a little frightened at a stranger coming 
so close to her, before she knew anything about it. ' May I trou- 
ble you for a glass of water ?' said he, with another bow. ' I have 
travelled long, and am oppressed with thirst.' Emma courtesied 
again, and blushed too, I dare say, and away she went for a glass 
of water, which she brought him with her own hands. Your grand- 
father had come to the door by this time, and he said he never saw 
a man so long drinking a glass of water in his life. As I told you 
before, it had been a terribly sultry day, and there were large 
thunder pillars leaning down black in the west — a sure sign there 
was going to be a heavy shower. Your grandfather came out, and 
being an hospitable man, he asked the stranger to stop and rest till 

the rain that was coming was over. He didn't wait to be asked 
22 



170 CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 

twice, but jumped from his horse and walked in, making a bow at 
the door, and waiting for your mother to walk in first. Well, sure 
enough, it did rain in a short time, and thunder, and lighten, and 
blow, as if the house would come down ; and the strange gentleman 
sat down close by Emma, and tried to keep her from being fright- 
ened, for she looked as pale as death ; and when the lightning 
flashed bright, she covered up her face with her hands. It kept on 
thundering and raining till bed-time, when your grandfather offered 
him a bed, and told him he must stay till morning. Everybody 
was taken with him, for he talked like a book, and looked as if he 
knew more than all the books in the world. He told his name, and 
all about himself — that he was a young lawyer just commencing 
business in a town near by (the very town we are now living in) ; 
that he had been on a journey, and was on his way home, which 
he had expected to reach that night. He seemed to hate to go 
away so the next morning, that your grandfather asked him to come 
and see him again — and he took him at his word, and came back 
the very next week. This time he didn't hide from anybody what 
he came for, for he courted your mother in good earnest, and never 
left her, or gave her any peace, till she had promised to be his wife, 
which I believe she was very willing to be, from the first night she 
saw him." 

"Nay, Aunt Patty," said Mrs. Worth, "I must correct you in 
some of your items ; your imagination is a little too vivid." 

Edmund went behind his mother's chair, and putting his hands 
playfully over her ears, begged Aunt Patty to go on, and give her 
imagination full scope. 

"And show us the wedding-dress, and tell us all about it," said 
Bessy. " It is pleasanter to hear of mother's wedding, than Par- 
son Broomfield's funeral." 

" But that's the way, darling — a funeral and a wedding, a birth 
and a death, all mixed up, the world over. We must take things 
as they come, and be thankful for all. Do you see this white 
sprigged satin, and this bit of white lace ? The wedding-dress was 
made of the satin, and trimmed round the neck and sleeves with 
the lace, and the money it cost would have clothed a poor family 



CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 171 

for a long time. But your grandfather said he had but one daugh- 
ter, and she should be well fitted out, if it cost him all he had in 
the world. And, moreover, he had a son-in-law, whom he would 
not exchange for any other man in the universe. When Emma, 
your mother that is', was dressed in her bridal finery, with white 
blossoms in her hair, which hung in ringlets down her rosy cheeks, 
you might search the country round for a prettier and fairer bride 
— and your father looked like a prince. Parson Broomfield said 
they were the handsomest couple he ever married — and, bless his 
soul, they were the last. He was taken sick a week after the wed- 
ding, and never lifted his head afterwards. It is a blessed thing 
Emma was married when she was, for I wouldn't want to be mar- 
ried by any other minister in the world than Parson Broomfield." 

"Where's your husband, Aunt Patty ?" said Estelle, suddenly. 

Edmund and Bessy laughed outright. Emma only smiled — she 
feared Aunt Patty's feelings might be wounded. 

" I never had any, child," replied she, after taking a large pinch 
of snuff. 

" What's the reason ?" persevered Estelle. 

"Hush — Estelle," said her mother, "little girls must not ask 
so many questions." 

"I'll tell you the reason," cried Aunt Patty, "for I'm never 
ashamed to speak the truth. No one ever thought of marrying 
me, for I was a lame, helpless, and homely girl, without a cent of 
money to make folks think one pretty, whether I was or not. I 
never dreamed of having sweethearts, but was thankful for friends, 
who were willing to bear with my infirmities, and provide for my 
comfort. I don't care if they do call me an old maid. I'm satis- 
fied with the place Providence has assigned me, knowing it's a thou- 
sand times better than I deserve. The tree that stands alone by 
the wayside offers shelter and shade to the weary traveller. It was 
not created in vain, though no blossom nor fruit may hang upon 
its boughs. It gets its portion of the sunshine and dew, and the 
little birds come and nestle in its branches." 



HANNAH ADAMS. 



Mrs. GriLMAN, in ter autobiography, page 55 of the present volume, 
makes a very pleasant allusion to Hannah Adams, the venerated author 
of the " History of Religions," the pioneer, almost, of American female 
authorship. The account of her which follows is taken, with very slight 
verbal alterations, from "Woman's Record," by Mrs. Hale, and may be 
considered as an additional extract from that valuable work. 

" Hannah Adams was born in Medfield, Massachusetts, in 1755. Her 
father was a respectable farmer in that place, rather better educated than 
persons of his class usually were at that time; and his daughter, who was 
a very delicate child, profited by his fondness for books. So great was 
her love for reading and study, that when very young she had committed 
to memory nearly all of Milton, Pope, Thomson, Young, and several 
other poets. 

" When she was about seventeen her father failed in business, and Miss 
Adams was obliged to exert herself for her own maintenance. This she 
did at first by making lace, a very profitable employment during the revo- 
lutionary war, as very little lace was then imported. But after the termi- 
nation of the conflict she was obliged to resort to some other means of 
support; and having acquired from the students who had boarded with her 
father, a competent knowledge of Latin and Greek, she undertook to pre- 
pare young men for college ; and succeeded so well, that her reputation 
was spread throughout the State. 

" Her first work, entitled " The View of Religions," which she com- 
menced when she was about thirty, is a history of the different sects in 
religion. It caused her so much hard study and close reflection, that she 
was attacked before the close of her labours by a severe fit of illness, and 
threatened with derangement. Her next work was a carefully written 
" History of New England ;" and her third was on " The Evidences of 

the Christian Religion." 

(172) 



HANNAH ADAMS. 173 

" Though all these works showed great candour and liberality of mind 
and profound research, and though they were popular, yet they brought 
her but little besides fame ; which, however, had extended to Europe, and 
she reckoned among her correspondents many of the learned men of all 
countries. Among these was the celebrated abbe G-regoire, who was then 
struggling for the emancipation of the Jews in France. He sent Miss 
Adams several volumes, which she acknowledged were of much use to 
her in preparing her own work, a " History of the Jews," now considered 
one of the most valuable of her productions. Still, as far as pecuniary 
matters went, she was singularly unsuccessful, probably from her want 
of knowledge of business, and ignorance in worldly matters; and, to 
relieve her from her embarrassments, three wealthy gentlemen of Boston, 
with great liberality, settled an annuity upon her, of which she was kept 
in entire ignorance till the whole affair was completed. 

" The latter part of her life passed in Boston, in the midst of a large 
circle of friends, by whom she was warmly cherished and esteemed for 
the singular excellence, purity, and simplicity of her character. She 
died, November 15th, 1832, at the age of seventy-six, and was buried at 
Mount Auburn ; the first one whose body was placed in that cemetery. 
Through life, the gentleness of her manners and the sweetness of her 
temper were childlike ; she trusted all her cares to the control of her 
heavenly Father; and she did not trust in vain." 



THE GNOSTICS. 

This denomination sprang up in the first century. Several of 
the disciples of Simon Magus held the principles of his philosophy, 
together with the profession of Christianity, and were distinguished 
by the appellation of Gnostics, from their boasting of being able 
to restore mankind to the knowledge, yrwutj, of the Supreme Being, 
which had been lost in the world. This party was not conspicu- 
ous for its numbers or reputation before the time of Adrian. It 
derives its origin from the Oriental philosophy. The doctrine of a 
soul, distinct from the body, which had pre-existed in an angelic 
state, and was, for some offence committed in that state, degraded, 
and confined to the body as a punishment, had been the great 
doctrine of the eastern sages from time immemorial. Not being 
able to conceive how evil in so great an extent, could be subser- 
vient to good, they supposed that good and evil have different 
origins. So mixed a system as this is, they therefore thought to 



174 HANNAH ADAMS. 

be unworthy of infinite wisdom and goodness. They looked upon 
matter as the source of all evil, and argued in this manner : There 
are many evils in this world, and men seem impelled by a natural 
instinct, to the practice of those things which reason condemns ; 
but the eternal Mind, from which all spirits derive their existence, 
must be inaccessible to all kinds of evil, and also of a most perfect 
and benevolent nature. Therefore, the origin of those evils, with 
which the universe abounds, must be sought somewhere else than 
in the Deity. It cannot reside in him who is all perfection ; there- 
fore, it must be without him. Now there is nothing without or 
beyond the Deity but matter ; therefore matter is the centre and 
source of all evil and of all vice. Having taken for granted these 
principles, they proceeded further, and affirmed, that matter was 
eternal, and derived its present form, not from the will of the 
Supreme God, but from the creating power of some inferior intelli- 
gence, to whom the world and its inhabitants owed their existence. 
As a proof of their assertion, they alleged, that it was incredible 
the Supreme Deity, perfectly good, and infinitely removed from 
all evil, should either create, or modify matter, which is essentially 
malignant and corrupt ; or, bestow upon it in any degree, the 
riches of his wisdom and liberality. 

In their system it was generally supposed, that all intelligences 
had only one source, viz. the divine Mind. And to help out the 
doctrine concerning the origin of evil, it Avas imagined, that though 
the divine Being himself was essentially and perfectly good, those 
intelligences, or spirits, who were derived from him, and especially 
those who were derived from them, were capable of depravation. 
It was further imagined, that the depravation of those inferior 
intelligent beings from the Supreme, was by a kind of efilux or 
emanation, a part of the substance being detached from the rest, 
but capable of being absorbed into it again. To those intelligences 
derived mediately or immediately from the divine Mind, the authoi 
of this system did not scruple to give the name of gods, thinking 
some of them capable of a power of modifying matter. 

The oriental sages expected the arrival of an extraordinary 
messengei' of the Most High upon earth ; a messenger invested 



HANNAH ADAMS. 175 

with a divine authority ; endowed with the most eminent sanctity 
and wisdom ; and peculiarly appointed to enlighten with the know- 
ledge of the Supreme Being, the darkened minds of miserable 
mortals, and to deliver them from the chains of the tyrants and 
usurpers of this world. When, therefore, some of these philoso- 
phers perceived that Christ and his followers wrought miracles of 
the most amazing kind, and also of the most salutary nature to 
mankind, they were easily induced to connect their fundamental 
doctrines with Christianity, by supposing him the great messenger 
expected from above, to deliver men from the power of the malig- 
nant genii, or spirits, to whom, according to their doctrine, the 
world was subjected, and to free their souls from the dominion of 
corrupt matter. But though they considered him as the Supreme 
God, sent from the pleroma, or habitation of the everlasting 
Father, they deny his divinity, looking upon him as inferior to the 
Father. They rejected his humanity, upon the supposition that 
everything concrete and corporeal is in itself essentially and intrin- 
sically evil. Hence the greatest part of the Gnostics denied that 
Christ was clothed with a real body, or that he suffered really for 
the sake of mankind, the pains and sorrows which he is said to 
have endured in the sacred history. They maintained, that he 
came to mortals with no other view, than to deprive the tyrants of 
this world of their influence upon virtuous and heaven-born souls, 
and destroying the empire of these wicked spirits, to teach man- 
kind how they might separate the divine mind from the impure 
body, and render the former worthy of being united to the Fathei; 
of spirits. 

Their persuasion, that evil resided in matter, rendered them 
unfavourable to wedlock ; and led them to hold the doctrine of the 
resurrection of the body in great contempt. They considered it 
as a mere clog to the immortal soul ; and supposed, that nothing 
was meant by it, but either a moral change in the minds of men, 
which took place before they died ; or that it signified the ascent 
of the soul to its proper abode in the superior regions, when it was 
disengaged from its earthly encumbrance. The notion, which this 



176 HANNAH ADAMS. 

denomination entertained, that the malevolent genii presided in 
nature, and that from them proceed all diseases and calamities, 
•wars, and desolations, induced them to apply themselves to the 
study of magic, to weaken the powers, or suspend the influences 
of these malignant agents. 

As the Gnostics were philosophic and speculative people, and 
affected refinement, they did not make much account of public wor- 
ship, or of positive institutions of any kind. They are said, not 
to have had any order in their churches. 

As many of this denomination thought that Christ had not any 
real body, and therefore had not any proper flesh and blood, it 
seems on this account, when they used to celebrate the Eucharist, 
they did not make any use of wine, which represents the blood of 
Christ, but of water only. 

We have fewer accounts of what they thought or did with 
respect to baptism, but it seems that some of them at least disused 
it. And it is said, that some abstained from the Eucharist, and 
from prayer. 

The greatest part of this denomination adopted rules of life, 
which were full of austerity, recommending a strict and rigorous 
abstinence, and prescribed the most severe bodily mortifications, 
from a notion, that they had a happy influence in purifying and 
enlarging the mind, and in disposing it for the contemplation of 
celestial things. That some of the Gnostics, in consequence of 
making no account of the body, might think, that there was neither 
good nor evil in anything relating to it ; and therefore suppose 
themselves at liberty to indulge in any sensual excesses, is not 
impossible; though it is more probable, that everything of this 
nature would be greatly exaggerated by the enemies of this 
denomination. 




/: j^. r^^^ 



ELIZABETH R ELLET. 



Elizabeth Fries Lummis was born at Sodus Point, New York, Oc- 
tober, 1818. She was married at an early age to William H. Ellct, M. D., 
Professor of Chemistry in Columbia College, in the city of New York. 
Dr. Eliot having accepted, soon after, the appointment of Professor in 
South Carolina College, Mrs. Ellet resided several years in Columbia. In 
the beginning of 1849 Dr. and Mrs. Ellet came to reside in New York city. 

Her father was Dr. William Nixon Lummis. He was of a highly respect- 
able family, his father and brothers being physicians. He studied medi- 
cine in Philadelphia, attending the lectures of Dr. Benjamin Bush, whose 
friend he was, and whom in person ho strongly resembled. 

Her mother was Sarah Maxwell, daughter of John Maxwell, and niece 
of General William Maxwell, who served with distinction until near the 
close of the Kevolutionary war, when he threw up his commission on 
account of some dissatisfaction. 

Mrs. Ellet commenced authorship as early as 1833, since which time 
she has contributed largely, both in prose and verse, to many of the lead- 
ing periodicals, besides the publication of several volumes which have met 
with good success. 

A volume of poems appeared in 1835. In 1841 she published " Cha- 
racters of Schiller," containing an essay on the genius of Schiller, and a 
critical analysis of his characters. " Joanna of Sicily" soon followed. It 
was a work partly fictitious, partly historical, intended to exhibit the cha- 
racter and life of the queen whose name it bears. " Rambles about the 
Country" was a volume intended for children. It describes various scenes 
in th,e United States. " Evenings at Woodlawn" is a collection of Eu- 
ropean legends and traditions, translated and modified to suit American 
readers. It has had a large sale. 

Mrs. Ellet is understood to have written for the North American Review, 
the American Quarterly, and the Southern Review, but I am unable to 
designate particularly her articles. 

Her largest work is " The Women of the American Revolution," in 
23 (177) 



17rt l'^ li 1 Z A 15 !•: '1' II I''. E L L E T. 

tlirco voluuiofl. It has gono through seven or eight editions in two years. 
In this work sho has coUoctcd, from private sources; with abundant suc- 
cess, all the evidences of special patriotism and nobleness exhibited by her 
own sex during the period that " tried men's souls." The facts which 
sho has thus rescued from their traditionary state, and placed on perma- 
nent record, make a truly valuable addition to our revolutionary story. 
They are her own noblest and most enduring monument. 

Hcsides these very interesting volumes, Mrs. Kllet has published still 
anotlicr called the " Domestie History of the lun'ulution," of a character 
siiniliir to the I'oriucr in its gcni'ral tone and point of view, but having a 
regular and connected narrative, suitable for a text book. Her "Pioneer 
Women of the West" is a collection of memoirs from original papers and 
information furnished by the friends of tho heroines. Her " Watching 
Spirits" is an essay on tlui presence and agency of spirits in the world, as 
described iu tho Holy Scriptures. 

MARY SLOCUMB. 

It was about ten o'clock on a boaiitiful spring inornin<f, tliat a 
splondidly-dressed officer, accompanied by two aids, and followed 
at a sliort distance by a <i^uard of some twenty troopers, dashed up 
to the piazza in front of tho ancient-looking mansion. Mrs. Slo- 
cumb Avas sitting there, with her chikl and a near relative, a young 
lady, who afterwards became tho wife of Major Williams. A few 
house servants were also on the pia/za. 

Tho officer raised his cap, and bowing to his horse's neck, ad- 
dressed tho lady, witli tho question — 

" Have I tho pleasure of seeing tho mistress of this house and 
plantation !" 

" It belongs to my husband." 

" Is lie at home?" 

" lie is not." 

"Is ho a rebel?" 

"No, sir. IIo is in the army of his country, and fighting 
against our invaders ; therefore not a rebel." 

It is not a little singular, that although the people of that day 
gloried in their rebellion, they always took ofience at being called 
rebels. 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 179 

" I fear, madam," said the officer, "wo difTer in opinion. A 
friend to his country will be the friend of the king, our master." 

" Slaves only acknowledge a master in this country," replied the 
lady. 

A deep flush crossed the florid cheeks of Tarleton, for he was the 
speaker ; and turning to one of his aids, he ordered him to pitch 
the tents and form the encampment in the orchard and field on 
their right. To the other aid his orders were to detach a quarter 
guard and station piquets on each road. Then boAving very low, 
he added : " Madam, the service of his Majesty requires the tem- 
porary occupation of your property ; and if it would not be too 
great an inconvenience, I will take up my quarters in your house." 

The tone admitted no controversy. Mrs. Slocumb answered : 
" My family consists of only myself, my sister and child, and a few 
negroes. We are your prisoners." 

While the men were busied, diflfcrent officers came up at inter- 
vals, making their reports and receiving orders. Among others, a 
tory captain, whom Mrs. Slocumb immediately recognised — for 
before joining the royal army, he had lived fifteen or twenty miles 
below — received orders in her hearing to take his troop and scour 
the country for two or three miles round. 

In an hour everything was quiet, and the plantation presented 
the romantic spectacle of a regular encampment of some ten or 
eleven hundred of the choicest cavalry of the British monarch. 

Mrs. Slocumb now addressed herself to the duty of preparing 
for her uninvited guests. The dinner set before the king's officers 
was, in her own words to her friend, " as good a dinner as you have 
now before you, and of much the same materials." A description 
of what then constituted a good dinner in that region may not 
be inappropriate. " The first dish was, of course, the boiled ham, 
flanked with tlic plate of greens. Opposite w^as the turkey, sup- 
ported by the laughing baked sweet potatoes ; a plate of boiled 
beef, another of sausages, and a third with a pair of baked fowls, 
formed a line across the centre of the table ; half a dozen dishes 
of diiferent pickles, stowed fruit, and other condiments, filled up the 
interstices of the board." The dessert, too, was abundant and 



180 ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 

various. Such a dinner, it may -svell be supposed, met the parti- 
cular approbation of the royal officers, especially as the fashion of 
that day introduced stimulating drinks to the table, and the peach 
brandy, prepared under Lieutenant Slocumb's own supervision, was 
of the most excellent sort. It received the unqualified praise of 
the party ; and its merits were freely discussed. A Scotch officer, 
praising it by the name of whiskey, protested that he had never 
drunk as good out of Scotland. An officer speaking with a slight 
brogue, insisted it was not whiskey, and that no Scotch drink ever 
equalled it. " To my mind," said he, "it tastes as yonder orchard 
smells." 

"Allow me, madam," said Colonel Tarleton, "to inquire where 
the spirits we are drinking is procured." 

"From the orchard where your tents stand," answered Mrs. 
Slocumb. 

" Colonel," said the Irish captain, "when we conquer this coun- 
try, is it not to be divided out among us ?" 

" The officers of this army," replied the colonel, " will undoubt- 
edly receive large possessions of the conquered American provinces." 

Mrs. Slocumb here interposed. " Allow me to observe and 
prophesy," said she, "the only land in these United States which 
will ever remain in possession of a British officer, will measure but 
six feet by two." 

"Excuse me, madam," remarked Tarleton. "For your sake I 
regret to say — this beautiful plantation will be the ducal seat of 
some of us." 

" Don't trouble yourself about me," retorted the spirited lady. 
" My husband is not a man who would allow a duke, or even a 
king, to have a quiet seat upon his ground." 

At this point the conversation was interrupted by rapid volleys 
of fire-arms, appearing to proceed from the wood a short distance 
to the eastward. One of the aids pronounced it some straggling 
scout, running from the picket-guard ; but the experience of Colo- 
nel Tarleton could not be easily deceived. 

" There are rifles and muskets," said he, " as well as pistols ; and 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 181 

too many to pass unnoticed. Order boots and saddles, and you, 
captain, take your troop in the direction of the firing." 

The officer rushed out to execute his orders, while the colonel 
walked into the piazza, whither he was immediately followed by 
the anxious ladies. Mrs. Slocumb's agitation and alarm may be 
imagined ; for she guessed but too well the cause of the interrup- 
tion. On the first arrival of the ofiicers she had been importuned, 
even with harsh threats — not, however, by Tarleton — to tell where 
her husband, when absent on duty, was likely to be found ; but 
•after her repeated and peremptory refusals, had escaped further 
molestation on the subject. She feared now that he had returned 
unexpectedly, and might fall into the enemy's hands before he was 
aware of their presence. 

Her sole hope was in a precaution she had adopted soon after 
the coming of her unwelcome guests. Having heard Tarleton give 
the order to the tory captain as before mentioned, to patrol the 
country, she immediately sent for an old negro, and gave him 
directions to take a bag of corn to the mill, about four miles distant, 
on the road she knew her husband must travel if he returned that 
day. " Big George" was instructed to warn his master of the 
danger of approaching his home. With the indolence and curiosity 
natural to his race, however, the old fellow remained loitering about 
the premises, and was at this time lurking under the hedge-row, 
admiring the red coats, dashing plumes, and shining helmets of the 
British troopers. 

The colonel and the ladies continued on the look-out from the 
piazza. "May I be allowed, madam," at length said Tarleton, 
" without offence, to inquire if any part of Washington's army is 
in this neighbourhood?" 

" I presume it is known to you," replied Mrs. Slocumb, "that 
the Marquis and Greene are in this State. And you would not of 
course," she added, after a slight pause, "be surprised at a call 
from Lee, or your old friend Colonel Washington, who, although a 
perfect gentleman, it is said shook your hand (pointing to the scar 
left by Washington's sabre) very rudely, when you last met." 

This spirited answer inspired Tarleton with apprehensions that 



182 ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 

the skirmish in the woods was onlj the prelude to a concerted 
attack on his camp. His only reply was a loud order to form the 
troops on the right ; and springing on his charger, he dashed down 
the avenue a few hundred feet, to a breach in the hedge-row, leaped 
the fence, and in a moment was at the head of his regiment, which 
was already in line. 

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Slocumb, with John Howell, a private in 
his band, Henry Williams, and the brother of Mrs. Slocumb, 
Charles Hooks, a boy of about thirteen years of age, was leading 
a hot pursuit of the tory captain who had been sent to reconnoitre 
the country, and some of his routed troop. These were first dis- 
cerned in the open grounds east and north-east of the plantation, 
closely pursued by a body of American mounted militia ; while a 
running fight was kept up with different weapons, in which four or 
five broadswords gleamed conspicuous. The foremost of the pur- 
suing party appeared too busy with the tories to see anything else ; 
and they entered the avenue at the same moment with the party 
pursued. With Avhat horror and consternation did Mrs. Slocumb 
recognise her husband, her brother, and two of her neighbours, in 
chase of the tory captain and four of his band, already half-way 
down the avenue, and unconscious that they were rushing into the 
enemy's midst ! 

About the middle of the avenue one of the tories fell ; and the 
course of the brave and imprudent young officers Avas suddenly 
arrested by "Big George," who sprang directly in front of their 
horses, crying, "Hold on, massa ! de debbil here! Look yon!"* 
A glance to the left showed the young men their danger : they 
were within pistol shot of a thousand men drawn up in order of 
battle. Wheeling their horses, they discovered a troop already 
leaping the fence into the avenue in their rear. Quick as thought 
they again wheeled their horses, and dashed down the avenue 
directly towards the house, where stood the quarter-guard to 
receive them. On reaching the garden fence — a rude structure 
formed of a kind of lath, and called a wattled fence — they leaped 
that and the next, amid a shower of balls from the guard, cleared 

* Yon, for yonder. 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 183 

the canal at one tremendous leap, and scouring across the open 
field to the north-^vest, were in the shelter of the wood before their 
pursuers could clear the fences of the enclosure. The whole ground 
of this adventure may be seen as the traveller passes over the Wil- 
mington railroad, a mile and a half south of Dudley depot. 

A platoon had commenced the pursuit ; but the trumpets sounded 
the recall before the flying Americans had crossed the canal. The 
presence of mind and lofty language of the heroic wife, had con- 
vinced the British colonel that the daring men who so fearlessly 
dashed into his camp were supported by a formidable force at hand. 
Had the truth been known, and the fugitives pursued, nothing could 
have prevented the destruction not only of the four who fled, but 
of the rest of the company on the east side of the plantation. 

Tarleton had ridden back to the front of the house, where he 
remained eagerly looking after the fugitives till they disappeared 
in the wood. He called for the tory captain, who presently came 
forward, questioned him about the attack in the woods, asked the 
names of the American officers, and dismissed him to have his 
wounds dressed, and see after his men. The last part of the order 
was needless ; for nearly one-half of his troop had fallen. The 
ground is known to this day as the Dead Men's Field. 

Another anecdote, communicated by the same friend of Mrs. 
Slocumb, is strikingly illustrative of her resolution and strength 
of will. The occurrence took place at a time when the whole 
country was roused by the march of the British and loyalists from 
the Cape Fear country, to join the royal standard at Wilmington. 
The veteran Donald McDonald issued his proclamation at Cross 
Creek, in February, 1776, and having assembled his Highlanders, 
marched across rivers and through forests, in haste to join Governor 
Martin and Sir Henry Clinton, who were already at Cape Fear. 
But while he had eluded the pursuit of Moore, the patriots of New- 
born and Wilmington Districts were not idle. It was a time of 
noble enterprise, and gloriously did leaders and people come for- 
ward to meet the emergency. The gallant Richard Caswell called 
his neighbours hastily together ; and they came at his call as rea- 
dily as the clans of the Scotch mountains mustered at the signal 



1S4 ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 

of the burning cross. The whole country rose in mass ; scarce a 
man able to Avalk was left in the Neuse region. The united resri- 
ments of Colonels Lillington and Caswell encountered McDonald 
at Moore's Creek ;* where, on the twenty-seventh, was fought one 
of the bloodiest battles of the Kevolution. Colonel Slocumb's 
recollections of this (n^avely-contested field Avere too vivid to be 
dimmed by the lapse of years. He was accustomed to dwell but 
lightly on the gallant part borne by himself in that memorable 
action ; but he gave abundant praise to his associates ; and well 
did they deserve the tribute. "And," he would say — '■^my toife 
was there .'" She was indeed ; but the story is best told in her own 
words : 

" The men all left on Sunday morning. More than eighty went 
from this house with my husband ; I looked at them well, and I 
could see that every man had mischief in him. I know a coward 
as soon as I set my eyes upon him. The tories more than once 
tried to frighten me, but they ahvays showed coward at the bare 
insinuation that our troops were about. 

" Well, they got off in high spirits ; every man stepping high 
and light. And I slept soundly and quietly that night, and worked 
hard all the next day ; but I kept thinking where they had got to 
— how far ; where and how many of the regulars and tories they 
would meet ; and I could not keep myself from the study. I went 
to bed at the usual time, but still continued to study. As I lay — 
whether waking or sleeping I know not — I had a dream ; yet it was 
not all a dream. (She used the words, unconsciously, of the poet 
who was not then in being.) I saw distinctly a body wrapped in 
my husband's guard-cloak — bloody — dead ; and others dead and 
wounded on the ground about him. I saw them plainly and dis- 
tinctly. I uttered a cry, and sprang to my feet on the floor ; and 
so strong was the impression on my mind, that I rushed in the 
direction the vision appeared, and came up against the side of the 
house. The fire in the room gave little light, and I gazed in every 
direction to catch another glimpse of the scene. I raised the light ; 

* Moore's Creek, running from north to south, empties into the South River, 
about twenty miles above Wilmington. 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 185 

everything was still and quiet. My child was sleeping, but my 
woman was awakened by my crying out or jumping on the floor. 
If ever I felt fear it was at that moment. Seated on the. bed, I 
reflected a few moments — and said aloud : ' I must go to him.' I 
told the woman I could not sleep, and would ride down the road. 
She appeared in great alarm ; but I merely told her to lock the 
door after me, and look after the child. I went to the stable, sad- 
dled my mare — as fleet and easy a nag as ever travelled; and in 
one minute we were tearing down the road at full speed. The cool 
night seemed after a mile or two's gallop to bring reflection with 
it ; and I asked myself where I was going, and for what purpose. 
Again and again I was tempted to turn back ; but I was soon ten 
miles from home, and my mind became stronger every mile I rode. 
I should find my husband dead or 'dying — was as firmly my pre- 
sentiment and conviction as any fact of my life. When day broke, 
I was some thirty miles from home. I knew the general route our 
little army expected to take, and had followed them without hesita- 
tion. About sunrise I came upon a group of women and children, 
standing and sitting by the roadside, each one of them showing the 
same anxiety of mind I felt. Stopping a few minutes, I inquired 
if the battle had been fought. They knew nothing, but were 
assembled on the road to catch intelligence. They thought Caswell 
had taken the right of the Wilmington road, and gone towards the 
north-west (Cape Fear). Again was I skimming over the ground 
through a country thinly settled, and very poor and swampy ; but 
neither my own spirits nor my beautiful nag's failed in the least. 
We followed the well-marked trail of the troops. 

" The sun must have been well up, say eight or nine o'clock, 
when I heard a sound like thunder, which I knew must be cannon. 
It was the first time I ever heard a cannon. I stopped still : when 
presently the cannon thundered again. The battle was then fight- 
ing. What a fool ! my husband could not be dead last night, and 
the battle only fighting now ! Still, as I am so near, I will go on 
and see hovr they come out. So away we went again, faster than 
ever ; and I soon found by the noise of guns that I was near the 
fight. Again I stopped. I could hear muskets, I could hear rifles, 

24 



186 ELIZABETH F. ELLET, 

and I could hear shouting. I spoke to my mare and dashed on in 
the direction of the firing and the shouts, now louder than ever. 
The blind path I had been following brought me into the Wilming- 
ton road leading to Moore's Creek Bridge, a few hundred yards 
below the bridge. A few yards from the road, under a cluster of 
trees were lying perhaps twenty men. They were the wounded. 
I knew the spot ; the very trees ; and the position of the men I 
knew as if I had seen it a thousand times. I had seen it all night ! 
I saw all at once ; but in an instant my whole soul was centred in 
one spot ; for there, wrapped in his bloody guard-cloak, was my 
husband's body ! How I passed the few yards from my saddle to 
the place I never knew. I remember uncovering his head and 
seeing a face clothed with gore from a dreadful wound across the 
temple. I put my hand on the bloody face ; 'twas warm ; and an 
unJcnotV7i voice begged for water. A small camp-kettle was lying 
near, and a stream of water was close by. I brought it ; poured 
some in his mouth ; washed his face ; and behold — it was Frank 
Cogdell. He soon revived and could speak. I was washing the 
wound in his head. Said he, ' It is not that ; it is that hole in my 
leg that is killing me.' A puddle of blood was standing on the 
ground about his feet. I took his knife, cut away his trousers and 
stocking, and found the blood came from a shot-hole through and 
through the fleshy part of his leg. I looked about and could see 
nothing that looked as if it would do for dressing wounds but some 
heart-leaves, I gathered a handful and bound them tight to the 
holes ; and the bleeding stopped. I then went to the others ; and 
— Doctor ! I dressed the wounds of many a brave fellow who did 
good fighting long aftef that day ! I had not inquired for my 
husband ; but while I was busy Caswell came up. He appeared 
very much surprised to see me ; and was with his hat in hand about 
to pay some compliment : but I interrupted him by asking — ' Where 
is my husband ?' 

" ' Where he ought to be, madam ; in pursuit of the enemy. 
But pray,' said he, 'how came you here ?" 

" ' Oh, I thought,' replied I, 'you would need nurses as well as 
soldiers. See ! I have already dressed many of these good fellows ; 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 187 

and here is one' — going to Frank and lifting liim up vf'ith. my arm 
under his head so that he could drink some more water — ' would 
have died before any of you men could have helped him.' 

" 'I believe you,' said Frank. Just then I looked up, and my 
husband, as bloody as a butcher, and as muddy as a ditcher,* stood 
before me. 

" ' Why, Mary !' he exclaimed, ' What are you doing there ? 
Hugging Frank Cogdell, the greatest reprobate in the army?' 

" ' I don't care,' I cried. ' Frank is a brave fellow, a good sol- 
dier, and a true friend to Congress.' 

" ' True, true ! every word of it !' said Caswell. ' You are right, 
madam !' with the lowest possible bow. 

" I would not tell my husband what brought me there. I was 
so happy ; and so were all ! It was a glorious victory ; I came 
just at the height of the enjoyment. I knew my husband was sur- 
prised, but I could see he was not displeased with me. It was night 
again before our excitement had at all subsided. Many prisoners 
were brought in, and among them some very obnoxious : but the 
worst of the tories were not taken prisoners. They were, for the 
most part, left in the woods and swamps wherever they were over- 
taken. I begged for some of the poor prisoners, and Caswell 
readily told me none should be hurt but such as had been guilty 
of murder and house-burning. In the middle of the night I again 
mounted my mare and started for home. Caswell and my husband 
wanted me to stay till next morning and they would send a party 
with me ; but no ! I wanted to see my child, and I told them they 
could send no party who could keep up with me. What a happy 
ride I had back ! and with what joy did I embrace my child as he 
ran to meet me !" 

What fiction could be stranger than such truth ! And would not 
a plain unvarnished narrative of the sayings and doings of the 
actors in Revolutionary times, unknown by name, save in the neigh- 
bourhood where they lived, and now almost forgotten even by their 
descendants, surpass in thrilling interest any romance ever written ! 

* It was his company that forded the creek, and penetrating the swamp, made 
the furious charge on the British left and rear, which decided the fate of the day. 



1S8 ELIZABETH F. EL LET. 

In these days of railroads and steam, it can scarcely bo credited 
that 0, -woman actually rode alone, in the night, through a -wild 
unsettled country, a distance — going and returning — of a hundred 
and twenty-five miles ; and that in less than forty hours, and ■with- 
out any interval of rest ! Yet even this fair equestrian, whose feats 
would astonish the modern world, admitted that one of her 
acquaintances Avas a better horsewoman than herself. This was 
Miss Esther Walcc, the beautiful sister-in-law of Governor Tryon, 
after whom Wake County was named. She is said to have ridden 
eighty mdes — the distance betAveen Raleigh and the Governor's 
head-quarters in the neighbourhood of Colonel Slocumb's residence 
— to pay a visit; returning the next day. What would these 
women have said to the delicacy of modern refinement, fatigued 
with a modern drive in a close carriage, and looking out on Avoods 
and fields from the windows ! 



E. OAKES SMITH. 



About twelve miles from the city of Portland, in Maine, a pretty cot- 
tage just on the edge of a thick wood is pointed out by the neighbours 
with a feeling of pride, as the birth-place of Mrs. E. Oakes Smith. Her 
maiden name was Elizabeth Oakes Prince. One of the earliest of the 
settlers of Maine was an ancestor of hers by the name of Prince, and 
there is a tract of land in Maine, called " Prince's Point," where her 
ancestors settled in 1630, having gone there from Massachusetts. Her 
grandfather died in the year 1849, at the age of ninety-seven. He is 
described as having been a tall, handsome, patriarchal man, in appearance. 
Her mother, too, is described as an imperious, intellectual woman, with 
strong characteristics, and exceedingly beautiful. Her name was Blanch- 
ard, and she is of Huguenot descent. On the father's side Mrs. Smith is 
of a puritan family. 

She gave early indications of genius. The only circumstance of her 
childhood, however, that seems particularly noticeable, is her habit while 
a mere girl, of dramatizing little extempore plays, when as yet she had 
never seen or heard of such a thing, and in a family where Shakspeare 

was regarded as an abomination, and his readers as no better than 

they should be ! 

She was married at the early age of sixteen to Mr. Seba Smith, so 
widely known as the original "Jack Downing." Mr. Smith at the time 
of his marriage was the editor of the leading political journal of Maine. 
They are at present living in New York. 

Mrs. Smith's poems have never been fully collected. One small volume 
has been published, and has run through seven or eight editions. " The Sin- 
less Child" has been greatly admired, as also have been her " Sonnets," 
and many other small occasional pieces. Her largest work in verse is a 
tragedy, called '' The Eoman Tribute," which was acted in New York, 
but I believe has never been printed. Another play, " Jacob Leisler, or 
Old New York," has been well received by the critics, having been acted 
several times with entire success. 

(189) 




190 E. OAKES SMITH. 

As a prose writer, Mrs. Smith has been for several years a frequent 
contributor to the leading Magazines. Her contributions of this sort, 
chiefly stories and sketches, would make several volumes. Her magazine 
stories are chiefly of a legendary character, and many of them are con- 
nected with the history of her native State. She purposes collecting and 
publishing them under the title of " Legends of Maine." 

Her largest story, ^' The Lost Angel," was published in a volume in 
1848. She has chosen for the scene of this story the romantic valley 
of the Ramapo, in the State of New York, and dated it about two centu- 
ries back. It is, however, purely an imaginative, not an historical work. 
There may be facts embodied in the narrative, of which types are to be 
found in the early history of the Dutch colony, as there may be descrip- 
tions of scenery corresponding to what actually exists in the Ramapo val- 
ley. But the ideas which form the staple of the book, and which give it 
all its significance, are no more American, than the ideas of the "Mid- 
summer Night's Dream" are English. The work, in other words, is purely 
of an imaginative character. It is founded on those dark mysterious 
legends — half Christian, half pagan — which prevailed in central Germany 
during the middle ages. Out of these wild myths, Mrs. Smith has pro- 
duced a fiction, somewhat over-bold in speculation, occasionally careless in 
execution, but full of significance, brilliant — almost dazzling — in some of 
its conceptions, and everywhere teeming with grace and beauty. 

"Woman and her Needs" discusses the vexed question of woman's 
rights, and is a text book with those of the progressive party. " Hints 
on Dress and Beauty" has been received with much favour. The same 
may be remarked of " Shadow Land," in which the author gives her views 
of the spiritual element of our nature. " Bertha and Lily," 1854, likewise 
developes the author's views on the great moral and social questions of the 
age. It is represented by that accomplished critic, Mr. Ripley, as being 
far beyond any of Mrs. Smith's previous writings. " Riches without 
Wings," " Western Captive," " Moss Cup," and " Dandelion," are the 
titles of some of her smaller volumes. 



THE MYSTERY OF THE MOUNTAIN. 

While Hugo saw these things where he stood high up in the 
mountain, his eyes followed the sparks from the furnace, and he 
began to wonder that he should hear the sound of the flame at such 
a distance. Then he bethought himself and looked around, for, 
what he had supposed the sound from the heat of the forge, pro- 
ceeded from something close to his feet, at which he marvelled, 
seeing nothing. It was a short tinkling sound as if many metallic 
substances rang against one another, and crystals clicked their 



E. OAKES SMITH. 191 

angles fretfully, yet all making most clear and beautiful melody. 
Observing more closely, Hugo beheld a toad squatted close to liis 
ear upon a shelf of the rock, whose eyes were brighter than sap- 
phires, and every spot upon his mottled sides had become a gem 
while he sang : — 

In the cavern we lie hidden, 

Gem, and crystal, diamond stone, 
Buried are we, and forbidden 

To lay bare our glittering throne. 
Mystic numbers, sacred symbols, 

Break the spell that now enthralls us. 
Hark the tabor and the timbrels ; 

Up, my braves, the music calls us. 

Instantly the toad began to move itself up and down, thrusting 
out its short loose legs in the strangest fashion, and with great 
apparent glee. Its head moved from side to side, keeping time to 
the music, and its eyes grew every moment more brilliant. While 
Hugo looked on laughing, and he laughed in the loudest manner, 
for he was a bluff hearty man, he began to move to and fro, and 
wag his head with the toad. Then he saw that another had joined 
them in the shape of a serpent, whereat he drew back in terror ; 
but the snake came on, erecting his head and glowing in his bur- 
nished folds, till he came opposite to the man Hugo, when he began 
to move from side to side, and Hugo did the same, with wonderful 
ease and pleasure ; the dance growing more and more rapid, and 
the snake, no more a snake, but a column of rubies and diamonds 
and all precious stones, changing and flashing and tinkling their 
sharp points, and rolling and writhing in the ecstasy of light ; just 
as a skilful youth tosses many marbles into the air, catching them 
before they fall to the ground, and they ring sharply as they click 
one against another. 

There was a slight crash, and Hugo saw as it were into the 
bowels of the mountain. He stooped himself and peered down, 
•wondering from whence came so great a light. Then he saw that 
the earth opened, revealing a great funnel, the sides of which con- 
sisted of projections or little shelves upon which rested swarthy 



192 E. OAKES SMITH. 

creatures, whose eyes were gems, and lighted the cavern. As 
Hugo looked, they each turned themselves heavily and rolled their 
eyes upon him ; and as they did so, each lifted a filmy paw, and 
showed a jewel which he held beneath, so bright as to dazzle the 
eyes and cast a flash like that of the firefly when he lifteth his 
wings. Hugo felt his heart burning with desire ; he longed to 
reach out his hand and seize the wealth held under those black 
claws ; but he was at a loss which to take, for every moment one 
more gorgeous than the last met hia eyes. 

Still peering downward, he beheld upon the floor of the cavern 
a huge brown creature studded with crimson, which clung to the 
ground as the haliotis clings to the rock ; but seeing the eager 
desire of Hugo, he lifted himself and showed what he held con- 
cealed ; and the man saw a burning triangle, with a word ivritten 
in fire, and he knew that that was the word, which spoken gives 
dominion over the whole earth. 

Hugo roused himself wath a great shout, trying to pronounce 
the word ; three times did he shout, and three times did the word 
escape him ; as when a person would sneeze and the power is lost 
just in the act, so was it with him, and he was filled with a great rage. 
When he would have tried again, he felt a finger soft and cool laid 
in the shape of a cross upon his lips, whereat the oaths which were 
gathering there fell backward, and he saw the fair stately form of 
his wife looking tenderly upon him, but she did not speak. When 
Hugo would have spread forth his arms to her, he met only the 
night air ; the pale stars were shining reproachfully upon him, and 
the summer air lifted his locks from his bare head. He saw the 
toad plump itself into a hole, and the tail of the serpent twirl 
spirally as he slunk away among the rocks. Hugo thought of his 
wife, and for awhile the vision of the mountain lost its power, for 
his true human heart yearned with an exceeding love, which made 
all things else poor and unworthy. 



Next day Hugo placed his daughter upon a white palfrey, while 
he mounted a heavy black charger, and they went forth together, 



E. OAKES SMITH. I93 

following the river as it wound itself out of the glen into the open 
plain. Mary forgot her grief, and carolled like a bird, hoping to 
make her father smile. She darted ahead at full speed, and then 
returned showering roses in her path, and bound the head of her 
father's horse with a gay chaplet. Hugo smiled at the fooleries 
of the girl, for he bethought himself of her mother, and restrained 
his moodiness. 

When they came out where the country spread itself into a broad 
meadow, with the river rolling onward and the silent forest, and 
the high mountains lay against the sky, the girl drew with feelings 
of awe to the side of her father, and rode on in silence. Ever and 
anon the clear sound of a bugle swelled out, and then died away in 
the distance — while the baying of hounds told of courtly sport. 
Mary looked on every side, but neither dwelling nor human being 
was to be seen, but jangling the bells of her harness she caught the 
spirit of life which the bugle implied, and rode gayly onward. 

Reaching a lovely glade where the birches trembled lightly over 
a stream, Hugo dismounted, and they sat down upon the bank. 
The girl feared to disturb the silence of her father, so she nestled 
to his side and pulled the violets for lack of something to do. At 
length he said : 

" Mary, what is the word which the spirit keeps up in the 
mountain ? I have tried to speak it, and am not able." 

"It is an ill word, dear father, that removes the soul from 
God." 

"Nevertheless, speak it," said Hugo. 

" I dare not speak a word, that will mix my nature with earth- 
spirits, dear father." 

" Thou art but a cowardly girl," cried Hugo; "did I not see 
wealth such as the greatest monarch might envy, and did I not see 
thrones and power within my grasp, save that this palsied tongue 
could not seize the word ?" 

While her father spoke in this wise, Mary grew pale, and knelt 

with her hands folded in silence. At length she spoke : 

" It is a fearful word, dear father, which causes the crystal gates 
25 



194 E. OAKES SMITH. 

of Paradise to glide upon their hinges and shut the utterer out for 
ever." 

Hugo ground his teeth firmly, and said in a voice terrible, it was 
so firm and loud — 

" Speak, child — I would know it." 

Then Mary prayed, saying, " Oh, my God ! let the knowledge 
fade out from my soul, that I may never be guilty of this great 
sin." 

"Speak," said her father, turning pale with a great rage. 

The clear face of the child was turned to that of the dark man, 
and a fair smile was on her lips as she answered, 

" God has heard my prayer, dear father — I know it not." 

" Thou liest," answered the fierce man, and he struck the child 
with his heavy palm. 

Mary threw her arms around the neck of her father, pale and 
trembling, whereat a sudden pang of remorse filled him with shame 
and grief; but when he saw how still she lay in his arms, he grew 
fearful, and raised her up and looked into her face. She lay with- 
out breath or motion, and although he sprinkled water in her face 
from the brook, and called her passionately back to life, she did 
not lift up the fringes of her lids. 



THE ANGEL AND THE MAIDEN. 

After this scene upon the mountain, the stranger no longer 
wore that appearance of extreme saidness, which before had created 
a painful interest in his behalf: he no longer seemed weighed by 
those deep and mysterious thoughts, that shadow forth the unseen 
world, and leave us without the sympathy which alone makes this 
life cheerful; now a fair serenity diffused itself in his mien, and 
his face wore a placid and benign candour most lovely to behold 
There was a joyful upwardness in his look, and a genial outward- 
ness in his eyes, as if they rested lovingly upon God's creatures, 
and no longer were content with selfish introversion. 



E. OAKES SMITH. 195 

Mary saw the change in the youth with untold delight, she 
walked by his side and listened to his voice, gathering a higher 
aspiration from her noble companionship. Light as a fawn, she 
sported beside the clear brook, and the melody of her song waked 
the echoes of the glen to sweeter harmonies. 

Mary and the youth were wandering beyond the valley where 
the river opened into the plain, talking as they were wont ; they 
had gone onward, beguiled by their sweet discourse, and did not 
perceive how the great red sun burnished the hills with golden 
powder, for the dense trees were about them, and only his sharp 
light flecked the leaves and glanced upon the boles of the trees, 
now glinting the shoulders of the red-bird, and now flashing the 
green mail of the lizard, or turning the wings of the dragon-fly to 
rainbows — anon the coquettish squirrel caught the beam in his full 
soft eye, and the timid hare showed the tracery of blood in his 
pink ears as he darted across their path ; the mosses were like 
velvet beneath, and the frail wild flowers, vestal worshippers, meek 
beautifiers of the wilderness, lifted themselves in their solitude, 
content only with the blessing of the good Father. 

Mary drew to the side of the youth, and laid her hand in his, 
but he gently removed his own and placed it upon the jewelled hilt 
of his sword. Mary's cheek turned to crimson; she faltered, and, 
stung with pride, the tears gushed to her eyes. At this moment, 
they heard a low growl above their heads, and splinters of bark 
were scattered at their feet ; looking up, they perceived a panther 
just in the act to spring, with his terrible eyes fixed upon the vic- 
tims below. Instantly the sword of the young man sprang from 
its sheath, and the ferocious beast alighted, in his deadly leap, upon 
its point. 

When Mary recovered from the swoon into which she had fallen, 
she found the youth standing over the prostrate animal whose blood 
was dripping from his sword and garments, and she shrieked with 
terror, supposing that he must have been wounded. With kindly 
and respectful courtesy, he lifted her from the ground, and seating 
himself by her side, implored her to be tranquil. 



196 E. OAKES SMITH. 

" I must leave thee, Mary ; for I feel assured that mj pilgrimage 
is near its close." 

Mary could only weep. 

"There is much that I would tell thee, Mary; but I know not 
whether thou art able to bear it," the youth at length said. 

" Shall we meet again ?" faltered the child in a low voice. His 
face contracted with a sharp pang, and he murmured, " Oh, ray 
God! deliver thou mc." 

"Mary, I am in deadly peril; I beseech thee question me not," 
he replied. 

Mary looked into his eyes, so full of their clear unearthly light ; 
so full of all that makes a human heart a well-spring of ineffable 
blessedness, and overcome with the flood of girlish sympathy, she 
cast her arms about his neck, and murmured, "Do not leave me." 

Poor child ! the youth arose sternly from the ground, and placing 
one foot upon the shoulder of the beast he had just slain, turned his 
back to the girl, who shrank to the earth, and buried her face in 
the masses of curls that clustered about her neck. At length, the 
sobs of the child touched even his stern heart, and he turned him- 
self around : but oh ! the grief and agony on his face had done in 
minutes the work of years — he who a moment before had been fair 
and smooth as the boy of eighteen summers, was now rigid, stern, 
and marked by those outlines of thought, which come only when the 
soul has wrestled with some mighty grief, even like unto that of the 
Patriarch of old, when he wrestled all night with the Angel of God. 

"Mary," he said, sinking on his knees beside the girl, "I must 
tell thee all, and then if thou dost weep, and lament, the judgment 
of the Eternal will be completed in me." 

Mary lifted her head — "Thou wilt go — shall we not meet 
again?" 

The youth groaned heavily. 

Mary's pure nature taught her that she was giving pain, and 
casting her selfishness aside, she said : 

" "Wilt thou pardon my folly ? forget me, unless thou canst also 
forget this unmaidenly scene." 

The youth buried his face in his hands, and through the fingers 



E. OAKES SMITH. 197 

Mary saw the tears trickle, but the nature of them was soothing 
and holy. 

" I shall never forget thee, Mary ; wherever in the mysteries of 
God I may be transferred, the holiness of thy affection will cause 
this cheerless earth, in which and for which I have suffered so 
much, to be none other than the Paradise of God ;" and stooping 
downward he touched the tears, which had fallen upon the earth, and 
they became a chaplet of lilies with which he bound the head of Mary. 

" Dost thou remember the gems I once gave thee, Mary ? Then 
I had power over only the element of fire, which burns and con- 
sumes, or hardens to the rock, but now the water and the life are 
mine — behold these lilies — wear them — for thou art worthy." 

He turned his steps as if to depart. 

" Shall we meet again ?" implored the child. 

The youth lifted his head sorrowfully. " Shall we meet again ?" 
he repeated ; " for thy sake, for mine, I have questioned too. The 
knowledge of the future was once mine, but I resigned it as thou 
didst thy dangerous knowledge, and now the eternal world is hid- 
den from me ; I tread the valley of darkness more dismayed, than 
even a human soul ; now — now, that I could see ! What is 
faith to the once prescient Archangel?" and he cast himself to the 
earth, overcome with his terrible thoughts. 

" Shall we not meet again ? Oh ! in the long eternal years shall 
I not yearn for the look, the tone, for which even now I peril my 
redemption ? What is that terrible future ? How shall the soul 
exist floating onward for ever and for ever, with a universe of suns 
receding from its path, if it bear not with it the known and the 
loved ? How will it shiver and shrink from the gray twilight of the 
eternal, unless folded in the wings of a love which, though born of 
earth, leads onward to God ? Mary, Mary" — his voice ceased, and 
he fell prostrate to the earth. 



LOUISA S. M'COKD. 



Mrs. M'Cord was born in Charleston, South Caroliaa, Dec. 3, 1810. 
She is the daughter of Langdon Cheves, Esq., so well known in our pub- 
lic and political history. She was educated in Philadelphia, at the cele- 
brated school of Mr. Charles Picot, during her father's residence in that 
city; resided a short time in Lancaster, Pennsylvania; and in 1828, 
returned to the South, where in May, 1840, she was married to D. J. 
M'Cord, Esq., of Columbia, South Carolina; a gentleman of considerable 
local distinction — an admirable lawyer, an able public speaker, a good 
writer — the editor of the Statutes at large of South Carolina, and a frequent 
contributor to the Southern Quarterly Review. Like his accomplished 
wife, he delights in political economy, and is one of the best writers of 
the country, on the Free Trade side of the question. She is living at pre- 
sent at a plantation about thirty miles below Columbia, the site well known 
in revolutionary history as Fort Motte, distinguished by the patriotic 
sacrifice of her dwelling by the famous lady of that name, who handed to 
Marion the bow and arrows with which the blazing torches were conveyed 
to the shingles, and the British driven from the fastness. Mrs. M'Cord is 
herself a woman capable of this very sort of heroism, noble of person, 
warm, impulsive of spirit, and with a lofty and generous nature. 

Mrs. M'Cord has not collected her writings, which are comparatively 
numerous, and which usually take the shapes of reviews and essays. The 
writings by which she is chiefly known are of a sort to show that the advan- 
tages of birth and education so liberally granted her, have not been without 
fruit. She is one of the few women who have undertaken to write on the 
difficult subject of political economy. Her contributions on this subject 
to the Southern Quarterly Review are characterized by masculine vigour 
and an enlarged acquaintance with the subject. Among them may be 
named particularly "Justice and Fraternity," July, 1849; "The Right 
to Labour," Oct., 1849; "Diversity of Races, its Bearing upon Negro 
Slavery," April, 1851. She has published also a small volume, called 
" Sophisms of Political Economy," translated from the French of Frede- 
rick Bastiat. 

(198) 



LOUISA S. McCORD. 199 

Mrs. M'Cord is also favourably known as a poet. A volume of her 
poetry, entitled " My Dreams," appeared in 1848 ; and in 1851, she pub- 
lished " Caius Gracchus, a Tragedy," by far the most elaborate and im- 
portant of her writings. Her miscellaneous poems are mostly of a didactic 
character, and therefore do not justly illustrate the higher properties of 
her mind, which is marked by the energies of an eager, sanguine tempe- 
rament. This characteristic is more fully developed in her tragedy, where 
her poetical genius appears to more advantage. 



THE EIGHT TO LABOUR. 

We are not ultra-reformists ; — far from it ; — and yet we are of 
those wlio see, in the present condition of the world, the waking up 
of a new era. We are of those who believe in, — if not the perfect- 
ibility of man, — at least his great, lasting, and boundless improve- 
ment. Thought is roused, mind is awakened, which never again 
can sleep. Vainly are we told that preceding ages have shown 
equal civilization and similar improvement. Vainly is our attention 
directed to the great Nineveh, to Egypt, to Greece, and to Rome. 
These certainly do show — these have shown — progression and re- 
trogression, rise and fall, as the great pulse of humanity has 
throbbed in its breathing of ages ; but never has the world-soul 
been roused, as now, by the expansion of thought, circulating to 
distant points of our globe, whose very existence was not dreamed 
of by the wise of ancient days. Never has the great heart of civi- 
lization cast, as now, by its every pulsation, its life-blood to the 
farthest extremes of a universe, rousing itself from unconscious 
infancy to the full action of a reasoning being. Great as were the 
efforts of the ancients — great as were the results of those efforts — 
they were confined to little corners of a world, which now basks 
under the full radiance of extended and extending light. And yet, 
even of these efforts, nothing has been lost. The soul of their 
civilization, as each sank in its ruins, was breathed into the survivor, 
until at last, in the great crash of Roman power, the shattered 
remnants of its pride and its knowledge, scattering through Europe, 
laid the basis of modern civilization. 

Yet not for this, alas ! are we now exempt from the wildest 



200 LOUISA S. M' CORD. 

follies, the grossest vices. France, in her present struggles, shows 
a mingling chaos of all that is best and wisest, of all that is mad- 
dest and worst. Among the most rampant of her run-mad fancies 
is this wild dream of "fraternity" and socialism, with their Icarias 
and Utopian worlds. Would that these were confined to France 
alone ! Unfortunately, we see their extravagant madness striding 
the Atlantic and stamping its too plainly marked foot-tracks on our 
own shores. That terrible fallacy compacted in the words, " The 
right to labour," is rapidly working its mischief. "The right of 
man to labour, and of land whereon to labour," — what is it, as our 
communists interpret it, but the right to rob ? They would not 
labour for nothing, nor yet for such compensation as the true value 
of their labour, given where it is wanted and paid for as it is needed, 
will produce. They have the right to labour, be it for good or for 
ill. They have the right to be paid for that labour, let the capital 
they force into their use be theirs or another's. You do not want 
my work, — it matters not, — " I have a right to work, and you, 
having capital, must pay me for such work, be it to your detriment 
or your benefit. I have the right to labour !" 

Within this specious formula — "the right to labour" — ^lie con- 
centrated the greater number of those terrible fallacies which now 
threaten to overrun and devastate civilized society. The hydra of 
communism holds struggling in its deadly folds the Hercules of 
truth. That the latter conquers, who can doubt ? Man's nature, 
his soul, and instinct, alike lead him to the light. The world is 
progressive. The past shows, the present hopes for, and the future 
promises this ; b"ut fearful are the doubts, the despondencies, and 
the agonies, through which society must pass to attain its highest 
tone ! Around each great truth is gathered a crowd of errors — 
deceitful reflections of its beauty — giving to the mischievous a pre- 
text for ill, and often, with ignis fatiius light, misleading even the 
true-hearted and the good. 

There are crises in the world's course, when, rousing from tem- 
porary lethargy, reason seems more than usually wide awake to 
the influence of truth and light. But, in this very waking, is she 
also more subject to the misleading influence of error. The craving 



LOUISA S. M 'CORD. 201 

heart — the longing, seeking, hungering for truth — is roused ; and, 
in its eager search, how often, alas ! is the 'will-o'-the-wisp mistaken 
for the star-beam ! Through one of these crises are we noAv strug- 
gling. The world is in labour of a great truth, but its sick fancy 
is cheated with the bewildering dazzle of its own delirious dreams. 

One of society's closest guards — a kind of shepherd's dog, as it 
were, of the flock — stands political economy. "Watching, barking, 
wrangling at every intruder, suspicious of outward show, nor satis- 
fied with skin-deep inspection, it examines, before admitting all 
pretenders as true prophets, and strips many a wolf of his sheep's 
clothing. The evil-inclined, thus, naturally, hoot and revile it. 
The ignorant mistrust it. What do we, its advocates, ask in its 
defence ? Simply nothing, but that the world should learn to know 
it. We wish no law for its imposition — no tax for its protection. 
Let truth be but heard : there is in the heart of man an instinct to 
know and to seize it. Error is simply negative ; like shadow, it is 
only want of light. Heaven's sunbeam on the material world — 
reason's effulgence on the thinking soul — alone suffice to work 
God's purposes. Man, his humble instrument, cannot make the 
light ; he can but strive to remove the obstacles which intercept its 
abundant flow. 

We ask, then, only to be heard. Let the world know us. Let 

the people know us. Let political economy be the science of the 

crowd. It is neither incomprehensible nor abstruse. It requires 

but that each individual man should think, — think — not imagine, 

not dream, not utopianize — but think, study, and understand for 

himself. Where the masses are ignorant, what more natural than 

that they stumble into wrong ? Mind must act ; and more and 

more, as the world advances, does it call for the right of exerting 

and developing its power. In earlier ages, learning, information, 

thought, being limited to the few, the masses took the word from 

these high-priests of reason, whose veiled holy of holies was sacred 

from the intrusion of the crowd. But, now, the veil is rent asunder. 

Not you, nor we, nor he — nor any chosen one — nor ten, nor twenty 

— but man, — now claims the right to think for himself. He claims 

it ; he will have it ; he ought to have it. Let but those who are 
26 



202 LOUISA S. M'CORD. 

ahead in the race of knowledge give to those who need ; guide those 
who stumble in the dark ; and each, thus putting in his mite of well- 
doing in the cause, ward off, as much as possible, the calamities 
which necessarily hover round the. great and progressive change 
through which the world is passing. Great changes are oftenest 
wrought out only through great convulsions. It is a man's work, 
and man's heart is in it, when the humblest individual, with shoul- 
der to the wheel, stands boldly and honestly forth, to raise his hand 
in warding off the avalanche of evil. 

France, which now stands before the world, in the agonies of her 
struggles — great alike in truth and in error — France has experi- 
mented, and written for us, in her sufferings, a mighty lesson. 
May Ave but read and learn it ! Revelling in the madness of 
newly-gained freedom, her people not knowing the use of what 
they had seized, for them it became the synonyme of license. 
Rushing from extreme to extreme, they forgot that liberty was but 
enfranchisement, and, with "democracy" for their watchword, 
exercised a despotism much more fearful than that of the single 
tyrant, because its power, like its name, was "?e^^o?^." 

And what is the result ? Credit dead ; industry paralyzed ; 
commerce annihilated ; her starving people now sinking despondent 
under their difficulties — now driven to the madness of revolt, 
against they know not whom — asking, they know not what. 
France, terrified at her own acts, calls out for succour, and on 
every side resound the answers of her best and wisest citizens : 
"Step back from your errors; give truth its way" — '■Haissez 
passer ' — ' ' laissez faire. ' ' 

Amidst the throng of confused theories, each of which burns 
into the very vitals of the suffering State, its brand of crime and 
folly, 

" While lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change," 

political economy alone, Avith its great and simple truths, seems to 
hold forth some hope of a real regeneration. It alone enjoins upon 
its disciples to folloAV, step by step — to sift to the bottom its theo- 
ries and their remotest effects — before launching the world upon 
untried experiments. It alone gropes patiently its way, grappling 



LOUISA S. M 'CORD. 203 

■with doubts and difficulties, making sure and clear its footing, 
before calling upon society to follow. Its opponents — socialists of 
eyery grade — leaping blindfold to their conclusions, and taking 
impulse for inspiration, recklessly drag on their devotees from one 
wild dream to another, until 

"Contention, like a horse, 
Full of Hgh feeding, madly doth break loose, 
And bears dovm all before him." 

They do not mean the evil which they do. Very possibly, their 
hearts are of the purest — but their ideas, unfortunately, not of the 
clearest. Without examining into the practicability of their own 
schemes, they give way to a misty vision of goodness — a kind of 
foggy virtue — which, often but the rush-light of their own unregu- 
lated fancy — too indolent or too cowardly to probe to its source, 
and follow to its end — they imagine an inward light, a transmitted 
beam of heaven, and so dream on ! 



ANN S. STEPHENS. 



Mrs. Stephens, according to a writer in G-raham's Magazine,* was 
born about the year 1810, in an interior village of the State of Connec- 
ticut. She was married at an early age, and soon after removed with her 
husband to Portland, Maine. Subsequently, they changed their resi- 
dence to New York, where they have lived ever since. 

Mrs. Stephens's literary career commenced in Portland. Among the 
first of her friends there, was John Neal, who early appreciated her 
genius. She projected, and for some time published, the " Portland Maga- 
zine," to which she gave considerable celebrity, chiefly through her own 
contributions. On removing to New York, she engaged in writing for a 
more extensive circle of readers, and her fame rapidly widened. An event 
occurred soon after which gave to her name a special eclat. This was the 
winning of a prize of four hundred dollars, for the story of " Mary Der- 
went." Whatever she has written since that time has been in great demand 
among periodical publishers. Her tales, sketches, and poems, published 
in this way, would fill several volumes. Unfortunately, they have never 
been collected into any more enduring form than that in which they origi- 
nally appeared. 

Mrs. Stephens has a remarkable talent for description, seizing always 
the strongest points in a picture and bringing them out into bold relief. 
In the conception and delineation of character, too, she is clear and com- 
prehensive, yet working out her views more by descriptive than dramatic 
effect, telling how her characters act, rather than setting them into action. 
In regard to plot, her stories are simple, and rather bare of incident, as if 
aiming to huriy forward the reader by a strong, torrent-like impulse, 
rather than to entangle him in a curious and complicated maze. She has 
shown great versatility, apparently vibrating at will between a vein of the 
richest humour, as in the story of the " Patch-Work Quilt," and that deep 
and startling tragedy on which she more commonly relies. 

" Fashion and Famine," the largest of Mrs. Stephens's stories, being a 
full sized novel, has made its appearance just as the revised edition of this 
work is going to the press, July, 1854. The story is understood to be one 

* Charles J. Peterson. 

(204) 



ANN S. STEPHENS. 205 

of the iDresent time, bringing into strong contrast the varied scenes of 
splendour and of squalor, of riotous wealth and of starving poverty, that 
mark the state of society in our large cities. It is a fruitful theme, and 
one well suited to Mrs. Stephen's genius. 



THE QUILTING PARTY. 

A THREE-SEATED sleigh, gorgeous with yellow paint and gilding, 
drawn by two horses and a leader, stopped with a dash by the door- 
yard gate. A troop of girls, cloaked and hooded to the chin, were 
disengaging themselves from the buflfalo-robes and leaping cheerily 
out on either side, while the driver stood in front, bending back- 
ward in a vigorous effort to hold in his horses, which every instant 
gave a leap and a pull upon the lines, which set the bells a-ringing 
and the girls a-laughing with a burst of music that went through 
the old house like a flash of sunshine. The sleigh dashed up the 
lane in quest of a new load, while the cargo it had just left were 
busy as so many humming-birds in Julia's dressing-room,. Cloaks 
were heaped in a pile on the bed, hoods were flung off, and half a 
dozen bright, smiling faces were peeping at themselves in the glass. 
Never was an old-fashioned mirror so beset. Flaxen and jetty 
ringlets, braids of chestnut, brown and ashy gold flashed on its 
surface — white muslins, rose-coloured crapes, and silks of cerulean 
blue floated before it like a troop of sunset clouds — eyes glanced 
in and out like stars reflected in a fountain, and soft, red lips trem- 
bled over its surface like rosebuds flung upon the same bright 
waters. 

Again the sleigh dashed up to the gate, and ofi" once more. Then 
we all gathered to the out room, sat demurely down by the quilt, 
and began to work in earnest. Such frolic and fun and girlish wit 
— such peals of silvery laughter as rang through that old house were 
enough to make the worm-eaten rafters sound again — such a snip- 
ping of thread and breaking of needles — such demand for cotton 
and such graceful rolling of spools across the "rising sun"* could 
only be witnessed in a New England quilting frolic. The fire 
snapped and blazed with a sort of revel cheerfulness ; it danced up 
and down over the old mirror that hung in a tarnished frame oppo- 
* The name of the pattern which they were quilting. 



206 ANNS. STFPHEXS. 

site, and every time the pretty girl nearest the hearth-rug lifted 
the huge tailor's shears, appropriated to her use, the flame flashed 
up and played over them till they seemed crusted with jewels. One 
young lady, with a very sweet voice, sung "I'd be a Butterfly," 
with tumultuous applause. Miss Narissa exercised her sharp voice 
in "I won't be a Nun," and two young ladies, who had no places 
at the quilt, read conversation cards by the fire. 

Toward night-fall, Miss Elizabeth, who had hovered about the 
quilt at intervals all the afternoon, appeared from the middle room 
and whispered mysteriously to Narissa, who got up and went out. 
After a few minutes the amiable sisters returned, and with smiling 
hospitality announced that tea was ready. 

The door was flung wide open, and a long table, covered to the 
carpet with birds-eye diaper, stood triumphantly in view. We 
moved toward the door, our garments mingling together, and some 
Avith linked arms, laughing as they went. 

Miss Elizabeth stood at the head of the table, supported by a 
huge Britannia teapot and conical-shaped sugar-bowl, which had 
officiated at her grandmother's wedding supper. She waved her 
hand with a grace peculiarly her own, and we glided to our chairs, 
spread out our pocket-handkerchiefs, and waited patiently while 
Miss Elizabeth held the Britannia teapot in a state of suspension 
and asked each one separately, in the same sweet tone, if she took 
sugar and cream. Then there was a travelling of small-sized China 
cups down the table. As each cup reached its destination, the 
recipient bathed her spoon in the warm contents, timidly moistened 
her lips, and waited till her neighbour was served. Then two plates 
of warm biscuit started an opposition route on each side the board, 
followed by a train of golden butter, dried beef and sago cheese. 

About this time Miss Narissa began to make a commotion among 
a pile of little glass plates that formed her division of command. 
Four square dishes of cm-rant jelly, quince preserves, and clarified 
peaches, were speedily yielding up their contents. The little plates 
flashed to and fro, up and down, then became stationary, each one 
gleaming up from the snow-white cloth like a fragment of ice 
whereon a handful of half-formed rubies had been flung. There 



ANN S. STEPHENS. 207 

was a husli in the conversation, the tinkling of tea-spoons, -with here 
and there a deep breath as some rosy lip was bathed in the luscious 
jellies. After a time the China cups began to circulate around the 
tea-tray again, conical-shaped loaf cakes became locomotive, from 
"which each guest extracted a triangular slice "with becoming gravity. 
Then followed in quick succession a plate heaped up -with tiny 
heart-shaped cakes, snow-white with frosting and warmly spiced 
with carraway seed, dark-coloured ginger-nuts and a stack of jum- 
bles, twisted romantically into true lover's knots and dusted with 
sugar. ' 

Last of all came the crowning glory of a country tea-table. A 
plate was jslaced at the elbow of each lady, where fragments of 
pie, wedge-shaped and nicely fitted together, formed a beautiful and 
tempting Mosaic. The ruby tart, golden pumpkin, and yet more 
delicate custard, mottled over with nutmeg, seemed blended and 
melting together beneath the tall lights, by this time placed at each 
end of the table. We had all eaten enough, and it seemed a shame 
to break the artistical effect of these pie plates. But there sat Miss 
Elizabeth by one huge candlestick entreating us to make ourselves 
at home, and there sat Miss Narissa behind the other, protesting 
that she should feel quite distressed if we left the table without 
tasting everything upon it. Even while the silver tea-spoons were 
again in full operation, she regretted in the most pathetic manner 
the languor of our appetites, persisted that there was nothing before 
us fit to eat, and when we arose from the table, she continued to 
expostulate, solemnly affirming that we had not made half a meal, 
and bemoaned her fate in not being able to supply us with some- 
thing better, all the way back to the quilting-room. 

Lights were sparkling, like stars, around the "rising sun," but 
we plied our needles unsteadily and with fluttering hands. One 
after another of our number dropped off and stole up to the dress- 
ing-chamber, while the huge mirror in its tarnished frame seemed 
laughing in the firelight, and enjoying the frolic mightily as one 
smiling face after another peeped in, just long enough to leave a 
picture and away again. 

The evening closed in starlight, clear and frosty. Sleigh-bells 



3l)S ANN S. STEPHKNS. 

wore lieavd ;)t a distanco, and the illmuinatcd siunv uh'u-h lay 
beuoatli tlio windows was peopled Avitli shadows nu>vln>;- ovim- it, as 
one gronp after another passed out, anxious to obtain a view up the 
lano. 

A knoek at the nearest front dt)or put us to flight. Three young 
gentlemen entered and found us sitting ])riudy around the cpiilt, 
eaoli Avith a thimble on and earnestly at work, like so nuvny birds 
in a cherry-tree. Again the knocker resounded through the house, 
as if the lion's head that formed it were set to liovvling by the huge 
mass of iron belabouring it so unmercifully. Another relay of 
guests, heralded in by a gush of frosty wind from the entry, Avas 
productive of some remarkably long stitches and rather eccentric 
patterns on the "rising sun," which, probably, may be pointed out 
as defects upon its disc to this day. Our fingers became more hope- 
lessly treniulous, for some of the gentlenuMi bent o\er us as we 
worked, and a group gathered before the tire, shutting out the blaze 
from the huge mirror, which seemed gloomy and discontented at 
the loss of its old playmate, though a manly form slyly arranging 
its collar and a masculine hand thrust furtivi^ly tlu'ough a mass of 
glossy hair did, now and then, glance over its darkened surface. 

The lion's head at the door continued its groAvls, sleigh-bells 
jingled in the lane, smiles, and light and half-wliispered compliments 
circ\dated Avithiu doors. Everv heart was brim full of pleasurable 
excitement, and but one thing was requisite to the general happi- 
ness — the appearance of Old Ben, dear old black Ben, the village 
fiddler. Again the lion-knocker gave a single growl, a d3''ing 
hoarse complaint, as if it were verging from the Vion rampant to 
the lion couchant. All our guests were assembled except the 
doctor ; it must bo he or Cousin Eufus, with Old Ben. A half 
score of sparkling eyes grew brighter. There was a heavy stamp- 
ing of feet in the entry, which could have arisen from no single 
person. The door opened, and Cousin llufus appearetl, and beyond 
him, still in the dusk, stood the fiddler, with a huge bag of green 
baize in his hand, which rose up and down as the old negro deli- 
berately stamped the snow, first from one heavy boot, then from 
the other, and, regardless of our eager glances, turned away into 



ANN S. STEP HENS. 209 

the supper-room, wlici'o u, warm inii;^ ol" i^'iw^crrj] c'kLm- wnltcd his 
accoptiinc(;. 

What a time the hddlcr took in driiikin;^ his elder ! Wo could 
fancy him tasting the warm drink, shaking it about in the inug, 
after every deep draught, and mai'king its grachial diiiiiiiiitioii, jjy 
the grains of ginger clinging to the inside, with philosophical calm- 
ness — all the time chuckling, the old rogue, over the crowd of im- 
patient young creatures waiting his pleasure in the next room. 

At Nmgth, Cousin Ilufus flung open the door heading to tlie long 
kitchen, arms were presented, white hands ticmbling with impa- 
tience eagerly clasped over thcni, and a\va,y we went, one and all, 
so restless for the dance that two-thirds of us took a marching step 
on the instant. 

'r]\<', old kitchen looked gloi-ious by candlelight. Everywhere 
the wreathing evergreens flung a chain of trcnnilous and delicate 
shadows on the wall. A huge fire roared and flashed in the chim- 
ney, till some of the hemlock boughs on either side grew crisp and 
began to shower their leaves into the flames, which crackled the 
more loudly as they received them, and darting up sent a stream 
of light glowing through the upper branches and wove a perfect 
net-work of shadows on the ceiling overhead. The birds gleamed 
out beautifully from the deep green, tin; tall candles glowed in their 
leafy chandeliers till the smooth laurel leaves and ground pine took 
more than their natural lustre from the warm light, and the whole 
room was filled with a rich fruity smell left by the dried apples and 
frost grapes just removed from the walls. 

Old Ben was mounted in his chair, a huge seat which we had 
tangled over with evergreens. He cast his eye down the columns 
of dancers with calm self-complacency, took out his fiddle, folded 
up the green baize satchel, and began snapping the strings with his 
thumb Avith a sort of sly smile on his sharp features which, with 
broken music sent from his old violin, was really too mucli for 
patient endurance. 

Miss Narissa Daniels led off with the first stamp of old Ben's 
foot, and Elizabeth stood pensively by, evidently reluctant to en- 
gage herself before the doctor's arrival ; Julia hud Cousin Kufus 
27 



210 ANN S. STEPHENS. 

for a partner, and I, poor wretch, stood up half pouting Tvith Ebe- 
nezer Smith, who distorted his already crooked countenance, with 
a desperate effort to look interesting, and broke into a disjointed 
double shuffle every other moment. 

The night went on merrily. It seemed as if the warm gingered 
cider had released the stiffened fingers of our fiddler, for the old- 
fashioned tunes rung out from his instrument loud and clear, till 
every nook in the farm-house resounded with them. There was 
dancing in that long kitchen, let me assure you, reader, hearty, 
gleeful dancing, where hearts kept time cheerily to the music, and 
eyes kindled up with a healthier fire than wine can give, 

I have been in many a proud assembly since that day, where the 
great and the beautiful have met to admire and be admired, where 
lovely women glided gracefully to and fro in the quadrille with so 
little animation that the flowers in their hands scarcely trembled to 
the languid motion. But we had another kind of amusement at 
Julia Daniels's quilting frolic, and to say truth a better kind — the 
grace of warm, unstudied, innocent enjoyment, spiced perhaps with 
a little rustic affectation and coquetry. 



EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWOUTH. 



By ancestry Mrs. Southworth is both French and English, being 
descended through her father from Charles, le Comte Nevitte, and through 
her mother from Sir Thomas Grenfeldt, a knight of the days of James I. 
When the American Revolution broke out, her forefathers were among the 
first to fly to arms, and the names of Covington, Wailes, and Nevitt are 
not unhonoured in the Revolutionary annals of Maryland and Virginia. 

She was the eldest daughter of Captain Charles L. Nevitt, of Alexandria, 
Virginia, and of his second wife, Susannah George Wailes, of St. Mary's 
county, Maryland. Her father was an importing merchant of Alexandria. 
During the naval difficulties with France, his ships and cargoes were seized 
by the French, and consequently his affairs thrown into inextricable em- 
barrassment. During the last war with Great Britain he served at the 
bead of a company of volunteers, and received a wound in the chest, of 
which he never fully recovered. About the year 1816, Captain Nevitt 
married his second wife, then a girl of fifteen years of age, who was the 
only child of a widowed mother, and who could not well be separated from 
her. They therefore removed together to Washington city, having leased 
conjointly the commodious house on New Jersey Avenue, formerly occu- 
pied as a residence by General Washington. 

'' Here," says Mrs. Southworth, " I was born, on the 26th of December, 
1818, in the very chamber once tenanted by General Washington. I was a 
child of sorrow from the very first year of my life. Thin and dark, I had no 
beauty except a pair of large, wild eyes — but even this was destined to be 
tarnished. At twelve months old I was attacked with an inflammation of 
the eyes, that ended in total, though happily temporary, blindness ; thus 
my first view of life was through a dim, mysterious ' cathedral light,' in 
which every object in the world looked larger, vaguer, and more distant 
and imposing than it really was. Among the friends around me, the 
imposing form and benignant face of my dear grandmother made the 

(211) 



212 EMMA D. E. N. SOUTH WORTH. 

deepest impression. At three years of age my sight began to clear. 
About this time my only oum sister was born. She was a very beautiful 
child, with fair and rounded form, rosy complexion, soft blue eyes, and 
golden hair, that in after years became of a bright chestnut. She was of 
a lively, social, loving nature, and, as she grew, won all the hearts around 
her — parents, cousins, nurses, servants, and all who had been wearied to 
death with two years' attendance on such a wierd little elf as myself — yes 
— and who made me feel it loo. 

" I was wildly, passionately attached to my father — and even his par- 
tiality — it was the natui-al and general partiality — in favour of my younger 
sister, his * dove-eyed darling,' as he called her, did not affect my love for 
him. But he was very often from home for months at a time, and all my 
life then was divided into two periods, — when he was home, and when he 
was gone; and every event dated from one of two epochs — ^joyfully, 'since 
father came home' — sadly, 'since father went away.' But at last my 
father, who had never recovered from the effects of his wound, got a cold 
which fell upon his lungs. His health declined rapidly. And my joys 
and sorrows now took these forms — 'Father is able to walk about;' 
' Father is sick in bed.' 

" My father was a Roman Catholic, my mother an Episcopalian. This 
accounts for what occurred about this time. One day my sister and my- 
self were dressed and taken into our father's room. We found all the 
family assembled, with several neighbours around our father's bed. The 
priest was there in his sacred vestments. He had come to administer the 
last consolations of the Church to our father, and was now about to christen 
my sister and myself by his dying bed. After these rites of baptism were 
over, we were taken from the room, but not before our father had laid his 
dying hands upon our heads and blessed us. I do not know how long it was 
after this, or where we were standing, when some one — I know not who — 
came and said, ' Emma, your father is dead.' I remember I felt as if I 
bad received a sudden stunning blow upon the brow. I reeled back from 
the blow an instant, unable to meet it, and then — with an impulse to fly, 
to escape from the calamity — turned and fled — fled with my utmost speed, 
until, at some distance from home, I fell upon my face exhausted, insensi- 
ble. That is all I remember except the dark pageantry of the funeral 
that seemed to me like a hideous dream. I was then about four years old, 
my sister one year old. For months and even years after, I ruminated on 
life, death, heaven, and hell, with a painful intensity of thought, impos- 
sible to describe. 

"After my father's death, my grandmother and mother were in very 
straitened circumstances, and found it extremely difficult to keep up the 
style of living to which they had been accustomed. My grandmother had 
some property that brought her in a moderate income ; they had besides 
the house leased, and, for that day, very sumptuously furnished. My 



EMMA D. E. N. SOUTH WORTH. 213 

grandmother yielded to the advice of her friends, and received a few very 
select boarders. But she was a lady of the lofty old school, and never 
could learn to present a bill ; so the end of it was, she gave it up in a year. 

"■ At the age of six, I was a little, thin, dark, wild-eyed elf, shy, awkward 
and unattractive, and in consequence was very much — let alone. I spent 
much time in solitude, reverie, or mischief — took to attics, cellars, and cock- 
lofts, consorting with cats and pigeons — or with the old negroes in the kitchen, 
listening with open ears and mind to ghost stories, old legends, and tales 
of the times when 'Ole mist'ess was rich and saw lots of grand company' — 
very happy when I could get my little sister to share my queer pleasures ; 
but ' Lotty' was a parlour favourite, and was better pleased with the happy 
faces of our young country cousins, some of whom were always with us on 
long visits. The brightest lights of those days were the frequent visits we 
would make down into St. Mary's county, sometimes sailing down the 
majestic Potomac as far as St. Clement's Isle and Bay, where we generally 
landed, and sometimes going in the old family carriage through the grand 
old forest between the District of Columbia and the shores of the Chesa- 
peake. We often received visits also from our country kinsfolks — visits 
of months' and even of years' duration. 

"At this time of my life, rejoicing in the light and liberty and glad- 
ness of nature, I should have been very happy also in the love of my 
friends and relations, if they had permitted it, but — no matter ! Year 
after year, from my eighth to my sixteenth year, I grew more lonely, 
retired more into myself, until, notwithstanding a strong, ardent, demon- 
strative temperament, I becaxae cold, reserved, and abstracted, even to 
absence of mind — even to apparent insensibility. 

"Let me pass over in silence the stormy and disastrous days of my 
wretched girlhood and womanhood — days that stamped upon my brow of 
youth the furrows of fifty years — let me come at once to the time when I 
found myself broken in spirit, health, and purse — a widow in fate but not 
in fact — with my babes looking up to me for a support I could not give 
them. It was in these darkest days of my ivoman's life, that my autJwr's 
life commenced. I wrote and published ' Retribution,' my first novel, 
under the following circumstances. 

"In January, 1849, 1 had been appointed teacher of the Fourth District 
Primary School. The school was kept in the two largest rooms in my house 
— those upon the ground floor. I had eighty pupils. A few months pre- 
vious to this I had written a few short tales and sketches for the National 
Era. It was while I was organizing my new school that Dr. Bailey 
applied to me for anotlier story. I promised one that should go through 
two papers. I called up several subjects of a profoundly moral and philo- 
sophical nature upon which the very trials and sufferings of my own life 
had led me to reflect, and from among them selected that of moral retri- 



214 EMMA D. E. N. SO U T HWO IITIT. 

hutlon, as I undcrstooil it. I designed to illustrate the idea by a short 
tale. I commenced, and, somehow or other, my head and heart were 
teeming with thought and emotion, and the idea that had at first but glim- 
mered faintly upon ray perceptions, blazed into a perfect glory of light — ■ 
but which I fear I have not been able to transmit to others with the 
brightness with which it shone upon myself — no, it was dimmed by the 
dullness of the medium. My story grew into a volume. Every week I 
would supply a portion to the paper, until weeks grew into months, and 
months into quarters, before it was finished. 

" The circumstances under which this, my first novel, was written, and 
the success that afterwards attended its publication, is a remarkable 
instance of ' solving in tears and reaping in joy ;' for, in addition to that 
bitterest sorrow with which I may not make you acquainted — that great 
life-sorrow — I had many minor troubles. My small salary was inadequate 
to our comfortable support. My school numbered eighty pupils, boys and 
girls, and I had the whole charge of them myself. Added to this, my 
little boy fell dangerously ill and was confined to his bed in perfect help- 
lessness until June. Ho would suffer no one to move him but myself — 
in fact no one else could do so without putting him in pain. Thus my 
time was passed between my housekeeping, my school-keeping, my child's 
sick-bed, and my literary labours. The time devoted to writing was the 
hours that should have been given to sleep or to fresh air. It was too 
much for me. It was too much for any human being. My health broke 
down. I was attacked with frequent hemorrhage of the lungs. Still I 
persevered. I did my best by my house, my school, my sick child, and 
my publisher. Yet neither child, nor school, nor publisher received 
justice. The child suffered and complained — the patrons of the school 
grew dissatisfied, annoying and sometimes insulting me — and as for the 
publisher, he would reject whole pages of that manuscript which was 
written amid grief, and pain, and toil that he knew nothing of (pages, by 
the way, that were restored in the republication). 

*' This was indeed the very mclcc of the ' Battle of Life.' I was forced 
to keep up struggling when I only wished for death and for rest. 

" But look you how it terminated. That night of storm and darkness 
came to an end, and morning broke on me at last — a bright glad morning, 
pioneering a new and happy day of life. First of all, it was in this very 
tempest of trouble that my * life-sorrow' was, as it were, carried away — or 
/ was carried away from brooding over it. Next, my child, contrary to my 
own opinion and the doctor's, got well. Then my book, written in so much 
pain, published besides in a newspaper, and, withal, being the first work 
of an obscure and penniless author, was, contrary to all probabilities, 
accepted by the first publishing house in America, was published and 
(.subsequently) noticed with high favour even by the cautious English 
reviews. Friends crowded around me — ofiers for contributions poured in 



EMMA D. E. N. S OUTIIWOllT IF. 21') 

upon mo. And T, who six months bcforo liiul boon poor, ill, forsakou, 
slandered, h'dlrd by sorrow, privation, toil, and f'rieiullinesH, found myself 
born as it wore into a now life; found independence, sympathy, friendship, 
and honour, and an occupation in which 1 could delight. All this came 
very suddenly, as after a terrible storm, a sun burst." 

i\Irs. Southworth's novels have been extremely popular, and they have 
been poured forth from her teeming brain with a rapidity jx'rfeetly amaz- 
ing. ". Retribution" appeared in book form in 1H49, " Tlui Deserted 
AVife" in 1850, " Shannondale" and "The Mother-iii-Law" in 1851, 
" Children of the Isle" and " The Foster Sisters" in 185L5, " The Curse 
of Clifton," "Old Neighbourhoods and New Settlements," and "Mark 
Sutherland," in 1853, " The Lost Heiress" and " Hickory Hall," now in 
press, 1854 — eleven large works of fiction in less than live years ! Nearly 
all her novels have gone through numerous and large American editions, 
and at least four of them have been reproduced in England. 

The following estimate of Mrs, Southworth's writings is taken friua 
"Woman's Record," by Mrs. llalc, written after the appearance of tin; 
first four of the works quoted above. 

"Mrs. Soutliworth is yet young, both as a woman and an author; but 
she is a writer of great promise, and wo have reason to expect that the 
future productions of her pen will surpass those works with which she has 
already favoured the reading community — works showing great powers of 
the imagination, and strength and depth of feeling, it is true, but also 
written in a wild and extravagant manner, and occasionally with a freedom 
of expression that almost borders on impiety. This wc arc constrained to 
say, though wo feel assured that no one would shrink more reluctantly 
than the young writer herself from coolly and calmly approaching, with 
too familiar a hand, the persons and places held sacred by all the Christian 
world. She seems carried, by a fervid imagination, in an enthusiasm for 
depicting character as it is actually found (in which she excels) beyoiu! 
the limits prescribed by correct taste or good judgment. In other resi)ects 
her novels are deeply interesting. They show, in every page, the hand of 
a writer of unusual genius and ability. In descriptions of southern life, 
and of negro character and mode of expression, she is unequalled. She 
writes evidently from a full heart and an overflowing brain, and sends her 
works forth to the criticisms of an uninipassioned public without the 
advantage which they would receive from a revision, and careful pruning, 
at some moment when calmer reflection was in the ascendancy." 



216 EMMA D. E. N. S U T IIW CRT II. 



THE NEGLECTED CHILDREN IN THE ATTIC. 

Hagae, was dmen in from her rambles by the arising of a furious 
storm. She betook herself to the garret, her place of refuge in 
times of trouble. Poor little Rose, repulsed bj the gloom and ill- 
temper of "uncle," had already hidden herself there; and the 
children sat before the fireless hearth — the desolate children in the 
desolate scene. It was a large, low, square room, with two deep 
dormer Avindows facing the east, and looking far out upon the bay 
— with a dark cuddie under the eaves of the western wall — with a 
rude fireplace on the south, and opposite on the north, the door 
leading from the room into the narrow passage and down the stairs. 
The walls were very dark, and the plastering broken here and 
there. Between the two dormer windows, and close to the floor, 
was a large crevice in the wall, through which you might look into 
the long dark space between the wall and the edge of the roof, a 
space corresponding to the cuddie on the opposite side. Strange 
sounds were sometimes heard in this place, and through the crevice. 
Hagar, that child of shadows, would look with mysterious awe — 
for with its boundaries lost in obscurity, to her it seemed a dark 
profound sinking through the house down to the centre of t]^ earth, 
while her imagination loved to people it with ghosts, gnomes, and 
all the subterranean demons she had read of in her favourite book, 
the Arabian Nights. "Listen! listen to the spirits," she would 
sometimes whisper in wantonness to her little cousin. 

" I hear nothing but the rats in the cuddie," would the matter 
of fact Rose reply. The floor of the attic was bare, the planks 
rude and rough, and Avorn apart in some places, leaving dark aper- 
tures, down which Hagar would look as into an interminable abyss, 
the haunt of her favourite gnomes. There was no furniture in this 
room except an old trunk without a top, that sometimes served 
Rosalie for a baby-house, and sometimes reversed, for a seat. 
L'J'pon this trunk the children were now seated. The storm still 
raged around the old house-top — the shingles were reft off. whirled 



EMMA D. E. N. S U T II W RT II. 217 

aloft, and sent clattering, like hail-stones, to the ground ; the -wind 
howled and shrieked about the walls, and the old windows and 
rafters writhed and groaned in the blast, like the wail of lost souls, 
and the laugh of exultant fiends. The rain was dashed in floods 
against the crazy windows, and the children sprinkled through their 
crevices. The water began to stream from the leakages in the 
ceiling, and to collect in puddles in the corners of the room. These 
puddles enlarging and approaching each other, threatened to over- 
flow the floor. The children drew their trunk upon the fireless 
hearth. Rose's little chubby arms and legs were red with cold. 

"Oh! how the wand's a-blowing. I am almost frozen," wept 
Rose. And they were. "Let's go into the parlour," suggested 
Rose. 

Hagar looked at her with astonishment, that she should propose 
to "beard the lion" in his present mood. 

"Yes, into the parlour," persisted the child. "I'll bet you any- 
thing that uncle will let us stay in the parlour this evening, and 
warm ourselves at the fire ; it is so very cold you know." 

" Well ! it is my house, anyhow, and so, for your sake. Rose, we 
will go down." 

And hand in hand the shivering children left the attic, passed 
down four flights of back stairs, and went to the parlour door, and 
Rosalie peeped timidly in. It was the same old parlour, papered 
with the Christian martyrs, that I have before described ; and 
there sat the tall thin figure of Mr. Withers, dark, solemn, and 
lowering ; and opposite sat Sophie, with her soft brown eyes bent 
over her knitting. And, oh ! sight of luxury to the half-frozen 
child, — there was a glorious, glowing hickory fire, crackling, blaz- 
ing, and roaring in the chimney. The children opened the door 
and passed in, carefully closing it after them ; they approached the 
fire, Hagar with an air of defiance. Rose with a look of depreca- 
tion. Sophie looked at the children with remorseful tenderness, 
and made room for them, unluckily, between herself and Withers, 
thereby attracting his attention. He turned, and knitting his 

28 



218 EMMA D. E. N. SOUTH WORTH. 

brows until tliej met across his nose, and fixing his eyes sternly on 
the children, he asked, in a rough tone — 

"What are you doing here ?" 

"Warming ourselves !" exclaimed Hagar, raising her eyes, flash- 
ing, to his face. 

He frowned darkly on her, and half started from his seat, while 
Rose cowered at her side, and Sophie grew pale. 

"Be oiFwith yourselves," he said, in a stern undertone. 

Hagar planted her feet firmly on the ground, while Rosalia slunk 
away. Sophie arose, and saying, in a low tone, " Take Rose to the 
kitchen fire, dear Hagar," prepared to follow them. 

" Come back, Sophie !" exclaimed Withers, in an excited tone. 
And she sat down with a patient, despairing look, merely motioning 
to Hagar, by an imploring gesture, to leave the room. 

" Well ! let's go into the kitchen and warm ourselves at Aunt 
Gumbo's fire," suggested the ever hopeful Rosalia. 

They left the parlour by a back door that led through a sort of 
closet into the kitchen. The storm was still raging, but a good fire 
was burning ^on the kitchen hearth, and the tea-kettle was singing 
over the blaze, and old Cumbo was standing at a table kneading 
dough. 

"Are you going to have biscuits for supper. Aunt Cumbo?" 
asked Rosalia, in a coaxing tone, as she approached the table. 

" Now, what you comin' out here botherin' arter me for, when I 
am gettin' supper — go 'long in de house wid you," 

The old woman happened to be in a bad humour. 

"But, Aunt Cumbo, we are cold — we want to warm ourselves," 
coaxed Rose. " Mayn't we warm ourselves by your fire ?" 

" No, no, no ! kitchen ain't no place for white children, no how 
you can fix it, so go 'long in wid you." And the rough old woman 
came bustling up to the fireplace, drove the little girls away, and 
began to set her spider and spider lid to heat. 

"No; this is no place for us," said Hagar, who disdained a con- 
troversy with a menial ; and the children left the passage. 



EMMA D. E. N. SOUTH WORTH. 219 

Rosalia's teetli were chattering, and she felt as thougli the cold 
had reached her heart. 

" I wish that we were both dead, Hagar," said she, in a whimper- 
ing tone. 

" I don't," said Hagar, looking half in pity, half in scorn, at the 
wailing child. " Nor must you. You must live. You are to marry 
the President of the United States, you know." 

" Oh, yes !" exclaimed the vain child, suddenly brightening up, 
" so I am ! Cumbo, when she ain't cross, says I'm pretty enough 
to marry him or his betters ! And then, Hagar ! oh, Hagar ! then 
I am going to have a good fire all the time, in every room in the 
house ; and I will wear wliole shoes and stockings every day, and 
always have biscuits for supper. And — never mind, Hagar, you 
shall live with me, too ; and when I think of that, oh, Hagar ! 
When I think of that, I have such a — such a — what do you call it, 
that keeps people up, and keeps 'em alive ?" 

"Hope." 

"Yes! 'never give up.' You know Gusty Wilde says 'never 
give up,' and I am agoing to 'never give up.' I am going down 
into the cellar, now, to pick up chips. Tarquins has been down 
there sawing wood, and I know there must be chips there ; and we 
can pick up enough to make us a fire, and we can make a nice fire 
and tell stories." 

And with the elasticity of childhood she led the way down to 
the cellar. It was a large, dark, musty old place, with an area 
partitioned oif, in which milk, butter, fresh meat, &c., were kept in 
summer ; in winter it was usually two feet deep in water ; now, 
however, it was nearly dry. It was originally intended for a 
kitchen, and was built in the old-fashioned English style, with a 
large grate in the fireplace, with ovens each side, having heavy iron 
doors. These deep ovens, the bounds of which were out of sight in 
the darkness, seemed to Hagar like the entrances to subterranean 
caverns, the abode of ghosts. To Rose they were merely brick 
closets, that smelt very musty and unpleasant. The brick pavement 
of the cellar was decayed away, and green with mould. It was. 



220 EMMA D. E. N. SOUTH WORTH. 

however, a favourite resort with the children, for there they were 
free from persecution. They entered, and Rosalia began to fill her 
apron with chips, when Hagar spied an old worn-out flag basket, 
and drew it towards them. They both went to work, and soon filled 
the little basket, and Rosalia, taking it up in her chubby arms, 
began to toil up stairs with it. Hagar would have taken it from her 
— but "No, Hagar," said she, "I am afraid to go into the kitchen 
again. I'll carry this, and you go and steal a coal of fire, and bring 
the broom, so that we can sweep up the slop." 

Hagar went into the kitchen, which she found vacant. Cumbo 
had gone to the spring. Taking a coal of fire in the tongs, and 
seizing the broom, she fled up stairs into the attic, where little Rose 
was already busied in clearing the damp rubbish from the fireplace. 
She received the coal from Hagar, and, kneeling down, placed it on 
the hearth, collected around it the smallest chips, and blew it. A 
little blaze soon flickered on the hearth. She continued to add 
more chips as the weak flame would bear it. In the meantime 
Hagar had swept up the room. The storm had subsided. The 
little fire was burning cheeringly. The children drew the old trunk 
before it and sat down, their arms round each other's waist ; their 
little toes stretched out to the fire ; their countenances wearing that 
satisfied consciousness of having toiled for and won the comforts 
they were enjoying. And after all, it was but a little fire in a 
dreary old attic. They were not permitted to enjoy this long. 
Steps were heard approaching their retreat. The door opened, 
and Tar, or as he called himself, Tarquinius Superbus — the coloured 
boy of all work — entered. Rose ran to her basket of chips, and 
placed herself before it. 

"What you-dem do wid dat broom you stole from de kitchen, 
you little t'ieves, you ? Nex' time you gim me trouble for come up 
here arter you dem's nonsense, I tell Mrs. Widders, an' ef dat don't 
do I tell Mr. Widders — you see !" 

With that he espied the broom, and in going around to take it, 
his eyes fell upon the little fire, and the small basket of chips. 



EMMA D. E. N. SOUTH WORTH. 221 

Poor Rose looked guilty and disBiayed, but held desperately on to 
her property. Ilagar watched him with a steady eye. 

" My good gracious 'live — did any soul ever see de like ? What 
will Mr. Widders say ? A-wastin' all de wood ! Here's chips 
enough to kindle all de fires in de mornin'." 

And with a perspective glance at his morning's work, when the 
basket of chips would be very convenient, the rude boy stooped 
down to take possession of the prize. Rosalia held tight her 
treasure. He jerked it from her, and in doing so, tore her little 
tender arms with the rough flags of the old basket. Having lost his 
temper in the struggle, the boy then went to the chimney, and taking 
the tongs scattered the blazing chips, and raking the damp rubbish 
from the corners, extinguished the fire. Then with his prize he 
marched out of the room. Rose was sobbing and wiping the blood 
from her wounded arm. Hagar was still and silent, but the fire 
was kindling in her dark eyes ; her gipsy blood was rising ; at last 
she started after him, overtook him half way down the stairs, and 
seized the basket ; he pulled it from her hold and fled, she pursuing 
him into the kitchen. To end the matter, he went up to the 
chimney, turned up the basket, and shook down the chips into the 
fire. Her gipsy blood was up ! She ran to him as he was stooping 
over his work of wanton cruelty, and giving him a sudden push, 
sent him into the fire. The basket was crushed under his hands, 
and saved them from being badly burnt. He struggled, recovered 
himself, and arose. Just at this moment Cumbo re-entered the 
kitchen, and Rosalia, who had followed her cousin, came in. 

" What's de matter now?" inquired the old woman. 

Hagar Avas too proud and Rosalia too frightened to speak. 

Tar gave an exaggerated account of the whole affair, as he 
brushed the smut and ashes from his sleeves. He dwelt particularly 
on the waste with which " de childer had burned up all de light 
wood for kindlin'." 

Cumbo turned up the whites of her eyes in horror at the depre- 
dation. 

" It was only a few little chips that we picked up, and they were 



222 EMMA D. E. N. SOUTH WORTH. 

damp ; and see how he scratched my arms !" said Rosalia, holding 
them up to view. 

Gumbo having sent in supper, felt herself in a better humour ; 
and thought herself prepared to render judgment with marvellous 
impartiality and wisdom, which, seating herself, and resting her 
hands on her knees, she did to the following effect : 

" Tarquinus Perbus, you go right in house an' wait on table. 
Massa Widders, he callin' for you. An' Rose, you putty little 
angel, you come here an' sit on old mammy's lap, and toast your 
poor little footy toes before dis nice fire ; mammy's got a warm 
biscuit for you in her bosom, too. An' Hagar, you ugly, bad ting, 
go 'long right trait out dis here kitchen wid yourself. You're so 
bad I can't a-bear you — but ugly people always is bad." 

Now, if she had said bad people always are ugly, she might have 
come nearer the truth, or at least taught a better lesson. 

"I did not make myself, God made me," said Hagar. 

" He didn't ! He never made anything half so ugly and bad ! 
De debil made you. Jle made my beautiful, lovely, good, little 
Rose. Some ob dese days she shall be de Presiden's wife, and yow 
— you shall be her waitin' maid, 'cause nobody's ever gwine to 
marry i/ou — you're too ugly and hateful. Go 'long trait out dis 
here kitchen now, I don't want nuffin 'tall to do Avid you." 

Hagar left the kitchen, casting back a look of inquiry at Rosalia; 
but the little girl was petted, coaxed, flattered, and tempted by the 
warm fire, and the prospect of the nice biscuit, and preferred to 
keep her seat. 

Hagar took her lonely way up the four flights of stairs that led 
to the attic. Arrived there she sat down moodily upon the trunk, 
resting her elbows upon her knees, and holding her thin face 
between the palms of her hands ; her black elf-locks were hanging 
wildly about her shoulders, and her eyes were wide open and fixed 
upon the floor in a stare. She was bitterly reflecting that with a 
really kind-hearted aunt she was suffering all the evils of orphanage, 
abused by menials, pinched with hunger, and half frozen with cold. 
She was wondering, too, how it was that the good God had made her 



EMMA D. E. N. SOUTH WORTH. 223 

SO Ugly that she could not be loved, and therefore could not he good. 
Poor child, she never dreamed of general admiration, she only wished 
to be loved ; and she had no one to tell her that the beauty which 
wins permanent affection is the beauty of goodness ; that goodness 
will soften the hardest, and intellect light up the dullest features ; 
that though physical beauty may excite passion, and intellect attract 
admiration, only goodness can win everlasting love. 

When I recollect the strong and decided bias given in childhood 
to my own character by people and circumstances over which I had 
no sort of control, and against whose evil influence I could make no 
sort of resistance ; when I suffer by the effect of impressions received 
in infancy, which neither time, reason, nor religion have been able 
to efface — which only sorrow could impair by bruising the tablet ; 
knowing as I know the tender impressibility of infancy, feeling as 
I feel the indelibility of such impressions, I tremble for the unseen 
influences that may surround my own young children — ay, even 
for the chance word dropped by stranger lips, and heard by infant 
ears ; for that word may be a fruitful seed that shall spring up into 
a healthful vine, or a upas tree, twenty years after it is sown. In- 
fancy is a fair page upon which you may write — goodness, happi- 
ness, heaven, or — sin, misery, hell. And the words once written, 
no chemical art can erase them. The substance of the paper itself 
must be rubbed through by the file of suffering before the writing 
can be effaced. Infancy is the soft metal in the moulder's hands ; 
he may shape it in the image of a fiend, or the form of an angel — 
and when finished, the statue hardens into rock, which nothing 
but the hammer of God's providence can break ; nothing but the 
fire of God's providence can melt for remoulding. 



THEUESE LOUISE ALBEETINE EOBINSON. 

(talvj.) 

Mrs. Eobinson, the wife of the accomplished Orientalist, and herself 
a very accomplished philologist and scholar, is a German by birth. But 
so much of the outgrowth of her mind has been American in its origin, 
that it seems but meet to give her a place in the present work. 

The maiden name of Mrs. Robinson was Therese Louise Albertine von 
Jacob. The initials of her name, with a slight change in the arrangement 
of the letters, form the word Talvj, which has hitherto been her chief 
nam de plume. She is the daughter of the distinguished Professor von 
Jacob, of Halle. She was born at that place, on the 26th of January, 
1797. Her father became a Professor in a Russian University, first at 
Charkow, in 1806, afterwards at St. Petersburg, in 1811. It was during 
her ten years' residence at these two places, that she acquired her profound 
knowledge of the Slavic languages and literatures. On the return of her 
father to Halle, in 1816, she acquired a knowledge of the Latin. In 1822, 
she translated into German two of Scott's novels, " Old Mortality" and 
" Black Dwarf." In 1825, she published several original tales, under the 
title of "Psyche." Her next publication was "Popular Songs of the 
Servians," in two volumes, in 1826. They consisted of translations from 
the Servian, a language to which her attention had been accidentally 
turned, and which she mastered for the purpose of exploring its hidden 
treasures. 

She was married to Professor Eobinson in 1828. On coming to her 
home in the New World, her philological zeal followed her, and led her to 
undertake researches into the aboriginal languages of this continent, and to 
translate into German the work of Mr. Pickering on the " Indian Tongues 
of North America." This translation was published in 1834, at Leipsic. 
She published about the same time an historical view of the Slavic lan- 
guages. This appeared first in 1 834, in the form of contributions to the 

(224) 



THERESE LOUISE ALBERTINE ROBINSON. 225 

"Biblical Kepository." It was afterwards revised and enlaro'ed, aud 
published as a separate volume in 1850, under the following title, "Histo- 
rical View of the Languages and Literatures of the Slavic Nations, with 
a Sketch of their Popular Poetry." 

With the exception of a few articles in the Reviews and Periodicals, the 
"Historical View" is Mrs. Robinson's only original English work. Her 
novels, " Heloise, or the Unrevealed Secret," " Life's Discipline," and 
" The Exiles," though composed in this country, were all written in Gler- 
man, and translated into English by her daughter, who has the advantage 
of tivo native languages. In works of the imagination, where so much 
depends upon idiomatic expressions and the niceties of diction, Mrs. 
Robinson has not felt willing to trust herself to write in what is to her 
after all a foreign tongue. But in works partaking more of a scientific 
character, the case seemed to her different, and she has honoured the 
country of her adoption by making its language the vehicle of the profound 
and original work that has just been named. 

During a temporary visit to Germany, in 1837, Mrs. Robinson prepared 
and published an " Historical Characterization of the Popular Songs of the 
Germanic Nations, with a Review of the Songs of the Extra-European 
Races;" also a work on "The Falseness of the Songs of Ossian." 

Among the results of her American studies, may be mentioned a "His- 
tory of John Smith," published in Germany in 1845, and " The Coloni- 
zation of New England," likewise published in Germany, in 1847. These 
are both works of great research. They were prepared with a view to 
make her countrymen better acquainted with the ante-revolutionary history 
of this country. 

As a German writer, Talvi had the good fortune to be introduced to the 
public by Goethe, whose friendship she enjoyed, and who remarked of her, 
that " she had the heart of a woman, but the brain of a man." 



SLAVIC SUPERSTITIONS. 

The strong and deeply-rooted superstitions of the Slavic nations 
are partly manifest in their songs and tales ; these are full of fore- 
boding dreams, and good or bad omens ; witchcraft of various kinds 
is practised ; and a certain oriental fatalism seems to direct will and 
destiny. The connexion with the other world appears nevertheless 
much looser than is the case with the Teutonic nations. There is 
no trace of spirits in Russian ballads ; although spectres appear 
occasionally in Russian nursery tales. In Servian, Bohemian, and 
29 



22G THERESE LOUISE ALBERTINE ROBINSON. 

Slovakian songs, it occurs frequently that the voices of the dead 
sound from their graves ; and thus a kind of soothing intercourse 
is kept up between the living and the departed. The superstition 
of a certain species of blood-sucking spectres, known to the novel- 
reading world under the name of vam'pyres, a superstition retained 
chiefly in Dalmatia, belongs also here. In modern Greek, such a 
spectre is called Brukolacas, in Servian Wukodlah. We do not 
however recollect the appearance of a vampyre, in any genuine 
production of modern Greek or Servian poetry. It seems as if the 
sound sense of the common people had taught them that this super- 
stition is too shocking, too disgusting, to be admitted into poetry : 
while the oversated palates of the fashionable reading world crave 
the strongest and most stimulating food, and can only be satisfied 
by the most powerful excitement. 

In the whole series of Slavic ballads and songs, which lie before 
our eyes, we meet with only one instance of the return of a deceased 
person to this world in the like gloomy and mysterious way in which 
the Christian nations of the North and West are wont to represent 
such an event. This is in the beautiful Servian tale, " Jelitza and 
her Brothers." As it is too long to be inserted here entire, we 
must be satisfied with a sketch of it. Jelitza, the beloved sister of 
nine brothers, is married to a Ban on the other side of the sea. 
She departs reluctantly, and is consoled only by the promise of her 
brothers to visit her frequently. But "the plague of the Lord" 
destroys them all ; and Jelitza, un visited and apparently neglected 
by her brothers, pines away and sighs so bitterly from morning to 
evening, that the Lord in heaven takes pity on her. He summons 
two of his angels before him ; 

"Hasten down to earth, ye my two angels, 
To the white grave where Jovan lies buried, 
The lad Jovan, Jelitza's youngest brother ; 
Into him, my angels, breathe your spirit, 
Make for him a horse of his white grave-stone, 
Knead a loaf from the black mould beneath him, 
And the presents cut out from his grave-shroud ; 
Thus equip him for his promised visit." 



THERESE LOUISE ALBERTINE ROBINSON. 227 

The angels do as they are bidden. Jelitza receives her brother 
with delight, and asks of him a thousand questions, to which he 
gives evasive answers. After three days are past, he must away ; 
but she insists on accompanying him home. Nothing can deter her. 
When they come to the churchyard, the lad Jovan's home, he leaves 
her under a pretext and goes back into his grave. She waits long, 
and at last follows him. When she sees the nine fresh graves, a 
painful presentiment seizes her. She hurries to the house of her 
mother. When she knocks at the door, the aged mother, half dis- 
tracted, thinks it is "the plague of the Lord," which, after having 
carried ojBF her nine sons, comes for her. The mother and daughter 
die in each other's arms. 

This simple and affecting tale affords, then, the only instance in 
Slavic popular poetry, of a regular apparition ; but even here that 
apparition has, as our readers have seen, a character very different 
from that of a Scotch or German ghost. The same ballad exists 
also in modern Greek ; although in a shape perhaps not equal in 
power and beauty to the Servian. 

But the very circumstance that its subject is so isolated among 
the Slavic nations, who are so ready to seize other poetical ideas 
and to mould them in various ways, leads us to believe that the 
Servian poet must have heard somehow or other the Greek ballad, 
or a similar one ; and that the subject of the Servian ballad, although 
this is familiar to all classes, was originally a stranger in Servia. 
Nowhere indeed, in the whole range of Slavic popular poetry, do we 
meet Avith that mysterious gloom, with those enigmatical contradic- 
tions, which are peculiar to the world of spirits of the Teutonic 
North ; and which we think find their best explanation in the anti- 
thesis between the principles of Christianity, and the ruins of pagan- 
ism on which it was built. 

It is true, that, wherever Christianity has been carried, similar 
contradictions must necessarily have taken place ; but the mind of 
the Slavic nations, so far as it is manifest in their poetry, seems 
never to have been perplexed by these contradictions. History 
shows that the Slavic nations, with the exception of those tribes 



228 THERESE LOUISE ALBE-RTINE ROBINSON. 

who were excited to headstrong opposition by the cruelty and im- 
prudence of their German converters, received Christianity with 
chikllike submission ; in most cases principally because their supe- 
riors adopted it. Yladimh the Great, to whom the Gospel and the 
Koran were offered at the same time, was long undecided which to 
choose; and was at last induced to embrace the former, because "his 
Russians could not live without the pleasure of drinking." The 
wooden idols, it is true, were solemnly destroyed ; but numerous 
fragments of their altars were suffered to remain undisturbed at the 
foot of the cross ; and the passion-flower grew up in the midst of 
the wild broom, the branches of which, tied together, the Tshuvash 
considers, even at the present day, as his tutelary spirit or Erich. 
No struggle seems ever to have taken place to reconcile these con- 
tradictory elements ; while the more philosophical spirit of the 
Teutonic nations, and their genius for meditation and reflection, 
could not be so easily satisfied. The character of the Teutonic 
world of spirits is the reflex of this struggle. The foggy veil which 
covers their forms, the mysterious riddles in which their existence 
is wrapped, the anxious pensiveness which forms a part of their 
character, all are the results of these fruitless and mostly uncon- 
scious endeavours to amalgamate opposing elements. We cannot 
approach the region of their mysterious existence without an awful 
shuddering ; wliile the few fairies which Slavic poetry and supersti- 
tion present us, strike us by the distinctness and freshness of their 
forms, and give us the unmingled impression either of the ludicrous 
or of the wild and fantastic. 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



The maiden name of Mrs. Osgood was Frances Sargent Locke. She 
was a native of Boston, and born (we believe) about the year 1813. Her 
early life was passed chiefly in the village of Hingham. She gave very 
early indications of poetical talent. Her abilities in this respect were first 
recognised by Mrs. Lydia M. Child, who was then editing a Juvenile 
Miscellany. Miss Locke became a regular contributor to this work, and 
subsequently to other works, under the name of " Florence." She was 
married in 1834 to Mr. Osgood, the painter, and accompanied him soon 
after to London. They remained in the great metropolis for four years, 
Mr. Osgood acquiring an enviable reputation as an artist, and Mrs. Osgood 
as a writer. After their return to the United States, they resided chiefly 
in New York, although Mr. Osgood has been occasionally absent on pro- 
fessional tours to difierent parts of the country. In 1841, Mrs. Osgood 
edited an Annual, " The Flowers of Poetry, and the Poetry of Flowers," 
and in 1847, " The Floral Offering." She published a collection of her 
poems in 1846, and in 1850 a complete collection of her poetical works 
in one large octavo volume. This work, which was issued in sumptuous 
style, contains all of her poems, up to that date, which she thought worthy 
of preservation. She, however, after that time produced some few other 
poems, which will probably take their place in future editions of her 
works. 

Her prose contributions to the Magazines were numerous, and would 
make, if collected, one or two volumes. Though prose in name, they are 
all essentially poetical, far more so than much that goes under the name 
of poetry. Her whole life, indeed, as it has been well remarked, was a 
continual poem. "Not to write poetry — not to think it — act it — dream 
it — and he it, was entirely out of her power." 

Mrs. Osgood died, greatly lamented, in May 1850. 

(229) 



230 FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



THE MAGIC LUTE. 

My beauty ! sing to me and make me glad ! 
Thy sweet words drop upon the ear as soft 
As rose-leaves on a well. — Festus. 

On a low stool at the feet of the Count de Courcj sat his bride, 
the youthful Lady Loyaline. One delicate, dimpled hand hovered 
over the strings of her lute, like a snowy bird, about to take wing 
with a burst of melody. The other she was playfully trying to 
release from the clasp of his. At last, she desisted from the 
attempt, and said, as she gazed up into his proud "unfathomable 
eyes" — 

" Dear De Courcy ! how shall I thank you for this beautiful gift? 
How shall I prove to you my love, my gratitude, for all your gene- 
rous devotion to my wishes ?" 

Loyaline was startled by the sudden light that dawned in those 
deep eyes ; but it passed away and left them calmer, and prouder 
than before, and there was a touch of sadness in the tone of his 
reply — 

" Sing to me, sweet, and thank me so !" 

Loyaline sighed as she tuned the lute. It was ever thus when 
she alluded to her love. His face would lighten like a tempest- 
cloud, and then grow dark and still again, as if the fire of hope and 
joy were suddenly kindled in his soul to be as suddenly extin- 
guished. What could it mean ? Did he doubt her affection ? A 
tear fell upon the lute, and she said, " I will sing 

THE lady's lay." 

The deepest wrong that thou couldst do, 

Is thus to doubt my love for thee, 
For questioning that thou question'st too 

My truth, my pride, my purity. 

'Twere worse than falsehood thus to meet 
Thy least caress, thy lightest smile, 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 231 

Nor feel my heart exulting beat 

With sweet, impassioned joy the while. 

The deepest wrong that thou couldst do, 

Is thus to doubt my faith professed ; 
How should I, love, be less than true, 

When ihou art noblest, bravest, best? 

The tones of the Lady Loyaline's voice were sweet and clear, yet 
so low, so daintily delicate, that the heart caught them rather than 
the ear. De Courcy felt his soul soften beneath those pleading 
accents, and his eyes, as he gazed upon her, were filled with unut- 
terable love and sorrow. 

How beautiful she was ! With that faint colour, like the first 
blush of dawn, upon her cheek — with those soft, black, glossy 
braids, and those deep blue eyes, so luminous with soul ! Again 
the lady touched her lute — 

For thee I braid and bind my hair 

With fragrant flowers, for only thee ; 
Thy sweet approval, all my care, 

Thy love — the world to me ! 

For thee I fold my fairest gown. 

With simple grace, for thee, for thee ! 
No other eyes in all the town 

Shall look with love on me. 

For thee my lightsome lute I tune. 

For thee — it else were mute — for thee ! 
The blossom to the bee in June 

Is less than thou to me. 

De Courcy, by nature proud, passionate, reserved, and exacting, 
had wooed and won, with some difiiculty, the young and timid girl, 
whose tenderness for her noble lover was blent with a shrinking 
awe, that all his devotion could not for awhile overcome. 

At the time my story commences, he was making preparations 
to join the Crusaders. He was to set out in a few days, and, brave 
and chivalric as he was, there were both fear and grief in his heart, 
when he thought of leaving his beautiful bride for years, perhaps 
for ever. Perfectly convinced of her guileless purity of purpose, 



232 FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 

thought and deed, he yet had, as he thought, reason to suppose that 
her heart was, perhaps unconsciously to herself, estranged from 
him, or rather that it never had been his. He remembered, with 
a thrill of passionate grief and indignation, her bashful reluctance 
to meet his gaze — her timid shrinking from his touch — and thus 
her very purity and modesty, the soul of true affection, were dis- 
torted by his jealous imagination into indifference for himself and 
fondness for another. Only two days before, upon suddenly en- 
tering her chamber, he had surprised her in tears, with a page's 
cap in her hand, and on hearing his step, she had started up blush- 
ing and embarrassed, and hidden it beneath her mantle, which lay 
upon the couch. Poor De Courcy ! This was indeed astounding ; 
but while he had perfect faith in her honour, he was too proud to 
let her see his suspicions. That cap ! that crimson cap ! It was 
not the last time he was destined to behold it ! 

The hour of parting came, and De Courcy shuddered as he saw 
a smile — certainly an exulting smile — lighten through the tears in 
the dark eyes of his bride, as she bade him for the last time 
*' farewell." 

A twelvemonth afterward, he was languishing in the dungeons 
of the East — a chained and hopeless captive. 



"All ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, 
Or the death they bear, 
The heart, which tender thought clothes, like a dove, 
With the wings of care !" 

The Sultan was weary ; weary of his flowers and his fountains — 
of his dreams and his dancing-girls — of his harem and himself. 
The banquet lay untouched before him. The rich chibouque was 
cast aside. The cooling sherbet shone in vain. 

The Almas tripped, with tinkling feet. 
Unmarked their motions light and fleet ! 

His slaves trembled at his presence ; for a dark cloud hung lower- 
ing on the brows of the great Lord of the East, and they knew, 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 233 

from experience, tliat there were both thunder and lightning to 
come ere it dispersed. 

But a sound of distant plaintive melody was heard. A sweet 
voice sighing to a lute. The Sultan listened. " Bring hither the 
minstrel," he said in a subdued tone ; and a lovely, fair-haired boy, 
in a page's dress of pale-green silk, was led blushing into the 
presence. 

" Sing to me, child," said the Lord of the East. And the youth 
touched his lute, with grace and wondrous skill, and sang, in ac- 
cents soft as the ripple of a rill, 

THE violet's love. 

Shall I tell what the violet said to the star, 

While she gazed through her tears on his beauty, afar ? 

She sang, but her singing was only a sigh, 

And nobody heard it, but Heaven, Love, and I, 

A sigh, full of fragrance and beauty, it stole 

Through the stillness up, up, to the star's beaming soul. 

She sang — " Thou art glowing with glory and might. 

And I'm but a flower, frail, lowly, and light. 

I ask not thy pity, I seek not thy smile ; 

I ask but to worship thy beauty awhile ; 

To sigh to thee, sing to thee, bloom for thine eye, 

And when thou art weary, to bless thee and die !" 

Shall I tell what the star to the violet said, 

While ashamed, 'neath his love-look, she hung her young head ? 

He sang — but his singing was only a ray, 

And none but the flower and I heard the dear lay. 

How it thrilled, as it fell, in its melody clear. 

Through the little heart, heaving with rapture and fear ! 

Ah no ! love ! I dare not ! too tender, too pure, 
For me to betray, were the words he said to her ; 
But as she lay listening that low lullaby, 
A smile lit the tear in the timid flower's eye ; 
And when death had stolen her beauty and bloom. 
The ray came again to play over her tomb. 

Long ere the lay had ceased, the cloud in the Sultan's eye had 
dissolved itself in tears. Never had music so moved his soul. 
30 



234 FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 

" The lute was enchanted ! The youth was a Peri, who had lost 
his way ! Surely it must be so !" 

"But sing me now a bolder strain!" And the beautiful child 
flung back his golden curls — and swept the strings more proudly 
than before, and his voice took a clarion-tone, and his dark, steel- 
blue eyes flashed with heroic fire as he sang 

THE CRIMSON PLUME. 

Oh ! know ye the knight of the red waving plume ? 

Lo ! his lightning smile gleams through the battle's wild gloom, 

Like a flash through the tempest; oh ! fly from that smile ! 

'Tis the wild-fire of fury — it glows to beguile ! 

And his sword-wave is death, and his war-cry is doom ! 

Oh ! brave not the knight of the dai'k crimson plume I 

His armour is black, as the blackest midnight ; 

His steed like the ocean-foam, spotlessly white ; 

His crest — a crouched tiger, who dreams of fierce joji — 

Its motto — " Beware ! for I wake — to destroy !" 

And his sword-wave is death, and his war-cry is doom ! 

Oh ! brave not the knight of the dark crimson plume ! 

" By Allah ! thou hast magic in thy voice ! One more ! and ask 
what thou wilt. Were it my signet-ring, 'tis granted !" 

Tears of rapture sprung to the eyes of the minstrel-boy, as the 
Sultan spoke, and his young cheek flushed like a morning cloud. 
Bending over his lute to hide his emotion, he warbled once again — > 

THE BROKEN HEART's APPEAL. 

Give me back my childhood's truth ! 
Give me back my guileless youth ! 
Pleasure, Glory, Fortune, Fame, 
These I will not stoop to claim ! 
Take them ! All of Beauty's power, 
All the triumph of this hour 
Is not worth one blush you stole — 
Give me back my bloom of soul ! 

Take the cup and take the gem ! 

What have I to do with them ? 

Loose the garland from my hair ! 

Thou shouldst wind the night-shade there ; 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 235 

Thou who -wreath'st, with flattering art, 
Poison-flowers to bind my heart ! 
Give me back the rose you stole ! 
Give me back my bloom of soul ? 

" Name thy wish, fair child. But tell me first what good genius 
has charmed thy lute for thee, that thus it sways the soul?" 

" A child-angel, with large melancholy eyes and wings of lam- 
bent fire — we Franks have named him Love. He led me here and 
breathed upon my lute." 

" And where is he now ?" 

" I have hidden him in my heart," said the boy, blushing as he 
replied. 

" And what is the boon thou wouldst ask?" 

The youthful stranger bent his knee, and said in faltering tones 
— " Thou hast a captive Christian knight ; let him go free, and 
Love shall bless thy throne !" 

" He is thine — thou shalt thyself release him. Here, take my 
signet with thee." 

And the fair boy glided like an angel of light through the guards 
at the dungeon-door. Bolts and bars fell before him — for he bore 
the talisman of Power — and he stood in his beauty and grace at 
the captive's couch, and bade him rise and go forth, for he was free. 

De Courcy, half-awake, gazed wistfully on the benign eyes that 
bent over him. He had just been dreaming of his guardian angel ; 
and when he saw the beauteous stranger boy — with his locks of 
light — his heavenly smile — his pale, sweet face — he had no doubt 
that this was the celestial visitant of his dreams, and, following with 
love and reverence his spirit-guide, he scarcely wondered at his 
sudden disappearance when they reached the court. 



" Pure as Aurora when she leaves her couch, 
Her cool, soft couch in Heaven, and, blushing, shakes 
The balmy dew-drops from ber locks of light." 

Safely the knight arrived at his castle-gate, and as he alighted 



236 FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 

from his steed, a lovely woman sprang througli tlie gloomy arch- 
way, and lay in tears upon his breast. 

"My wife! my sweet, true wife! Is it indeed thou! Thy 
cheek is paler than its wont. Hast mourned for me, my love?" 
And the knight put back the long black locks and gazed upon that 
sad, sweet face. Oh ! the delicious joy of that dear meeting ! Was 
it too dear, too bright to last ? 

At a banquet, given in honour of De Courcy's return, some of 
the guests, flushed with wine, rashly let fall in his hearing an 
insinuation which awoke all his former doubts, and, upon inquiry, 
he found to his horror that during his absence the Lady Loyaline 
had left her home for months, and none knew whither or why she 
went, but all could guess, they hinted. 

De Courcy sprang up, with his hand on the heft of his SAvord, 
and rushed toward the chamber of his wife. She met him in the 
anteroom, and listened calmly and patiently as he gave vent to all 
his jealous wrath, and bade her prepare to die. Her only reply 
was — "Let me go to my chamber; I would say one prayer; then 
do with me as you will." 

"Begone !" 

The chamber door closed on the graceful form and sweeping 
robes of the Lady de Courcy. But in a few moments it opened 
again, and forth came, with meekly folded arms, a stripling in a 
page's dress and crimson cap ! — the bold, bright boy Avith whom he 
had parted at his dungeon-gate ! " Here ! in her very chamber !" 
The knight sprang forward to cleave the daring intruder to the 
earth. But the stranger flung to the ground the cap and the golden 
locks, and De Courcy fell at the feet, not of a minstrel-boy, but of 
his own true-hearted wife, and begged her forgiveness, and blessed 
her for her heroic and beautiful devotion. 



ELIZABETH C. KINNEY. 



Mrs. Kinney is a native of New York, and the daughter of Mr. David 
L. Dodge, a wealthy and retired merchant of that city. She was married 
in 1840 to Mr. William B. Kinney, so well known as the editor of the 
Newark Daily Advertiser, and as the leading political writer in the State 
of New Jersey. 

To Mrs. Kinney, the language of song seems to have been one of the 
instincts of her nature, and, if she did not actually " lisp in numbers," her 
poetical temperament was very early manifest, and has always been very 
strong. Her poems, which have been profusely scattered through the 
pages of the Knickerbocker, Graham, and Sartain, have, unfortunately, 
never been collected into any more enduring shape. She commenced pub- 
lishing under the name of " Stedman," dating from " Cedar Brook," the 
country residence of her father, near Newark, New Jersey. 

With the exception of " Aunt Rachel," published in Sartain's Magazine ; 
"The Parsonage Gathering," "My Aunt Polly," and "Mrs. Tiptop," 
in Graham, and some few other tales and sketches, her prose writings have 
appeared in the Newark Daily, the literary department of which has been 
for several years committed to her hands. The critiques and essays of 
various kinds that have graced these columns are among the best things 
that Mrs. Kinney has written. 

Mrs. Kinney, in 1850, went to Italy, her husband having received 

from the United States Government the appointment to the Sardinian 

mission. Her talents and her literary reputation have secured for her a 

very flattering reception among the savants and the court circle to which 

she has been accredited. Their residence is at Turin. 

(237) 



238 ELIZABETH C. KINNEY. 



OLD MAIDS. 

We might say " maiden ladies !" — but wish to redeem two plain 
monosyllables from a certain undefinable stigma that they have 
borne too long. Old implies years, and years imply wisdom ; why 
should we despise the one and not the other ? Why, unless it be 
that the word old, when coupled with maid, is held up as a bugbear 
to frighten girls into hasty and injudicious marriages ; or is perverted 
into another term for a shrivelled, vinegar-faced spinster, in whose 
nature the milk of human kindness has been soured by disappoint- 
ment, and turns to acid every sweet that it comes in contact with. 
Words being but signs of ideas, if such is the apparition conjured 
to the mind of any by the phrase old maid, we cannot wonder that 
it seems formidably odious. To us, very diiferent associations are 
connected with it : the stigmatized name seems almost sacred, con- 
veying to the mind, as it does, the image of a pure, patient, doing, 
and enduring spirit, well nigh divested of the selfishness that, 
innate, controls the infant, the child, the belle, and even the wife 
and mother — that ideal of perfected woman ! — in short, the embo- 
diment of disinterestedness. 

And who that will take off the glasses of prejudice, look around, 
and call up recollections of domestic life either at home, or in other 
homes, can fail to discover some female form and face — possibly 
attenuated and wrinkled by time and care — moving about the house 
from morning till night, ever bent on some errand of good to its 
inmates : now nursing the sick ; now contriving some delicacy for 
the table, or to gratify the juvenile appetite ; now bravely leading 
on to the fight a soap and water regiment, at that semi-annual 
internal revolution called house-cleaning, herself in the thickest of 
the fray ; now arranging wardrobes for the Spring and Autumn 
comfort of all the household — save herself ; now remaining through 
the heat and noxious atmosphere of a summer in the city, to keep 
the house in safety, while its proprietor, children, and even ser- 
vants are enjoying cool sea-breezes, drinking at fountains of health, 



ELIZABETH C. KINNEY. 239 

or roving in the free air of the country ; now out watching the 
moon, with weary hut sleepless eyes, the uninvited, awaiting the 
return of invited guests from some party or masquerade ; in hrief, 
spending and heing spent in the service of perhaps a sister, a cousin, 
or a niece, wliose return for untiring, disinterested affection, is the 
selfish love that considers its recipient invaluable, not as a gentle, 
unpretending associate, but as a reliable convenience ! 

But let us look at the causes, as well as effects, of single life in 
women. If the histories of all old maids were written, what dis- 
closures of female heroism would be made ! In how many cases 
could celibacy be traced, not to want of personal or mental attrac- 
tions ; nor of admiration or love ; but to that heroic nature which, 
though capable of the deepest and most enduring passion, has the 
fortitude to live alone, rather than be hound, not united, to an 
uncongenial being. And if " He that ruleth his spirit be greater 
than he that taketh a city," surely she that ruleth her heart is 
greater than she that taketh a name for the sake of a name ; or to 
avoid one stigmatized indiscriminately. 

Love is the instinct of the female heart : almost every woman 
who has lived to see thirty years, has felt the outgoings of affec- 
tion's well-spring ; but hers is not often the power of choosing, 
though it is of refusing. Who may tell the inward conflicts, the 
unuttered agonies, the protracted soul-sickness of conquered pas- 
sion ? But when a true woman once triumphs over an inexpedient 
or unreciprocated attachment, she triumphs over self, and becomes, 
that noblest of feminine spirits, the disinterested friend of mankind ! 
Be sure that the scandal-monger, the tart-mouthed old maid, is one 
whose inner heart has never felt the wound that opens a passage 
for human sympathies to flow out ; but is smarting under superficial 
mortifications, that, like poison introduced only skin-deep, fester 
and irritate continually. Rare are such cases, and yet few as they 
are, they infect the general mind, so that old maid, thus considered, 
is a noun of multitude, including all who choose or are destined to 
live single lives. And how many unhappy marriages are the con 
sequence of this opprobrium ! 

Even the single-hearted piety of unmarried females is derided. 



240 ELIZABETH C. KINNEY. 

Who has not heard such ribaldry as this, " 0, she's getting religion 
now that she can't get a husband ?" But it is the inspired Apostle 
who says, " The unmarried woman careth for the things of the 
Lord, that she may be holy both in body and in spirit." Thus do 
we see oftenest in the single woman that perfect love to God, which 
manifests itself in love to all his creatures. 

For our part, we venerate the very name of Old Maid — its hero- 
ism, its benevolence, its piety ! Ye, who are blessed with an Aunt 
Fanny, an Aunt Polly, or an Aunt Betsy — names too venerable to 
be spelled with the modei-n ie, which in your own, perchance, is 
substituted for the old-fashioned y — do ye ever think that, though 
unwedded, she has a heart alive with all human sympathies ? Ah, 
you cannot but feel this in her countless ministrations for your com- 
fort. But do you ever realize that she feels, not loved for herself 
in return, but for her deeds, and weeps silently under the con- 
sciousness that when her lonely, loving life ceases on earth, not she, 
but her offices of kindness will be missed and mourned for ? 

Such are some of the obscurer subjects of the vulgar prejudice 
against " Old Maids ;" and if these noiseless, yet immortalized indi- 
viduals, "whose names are written in the Book of Life," are such 
invaluable members of the household and of society ; what shall we 
say of Hannah More, of Joanna Baillie, of Maria Edgeworth, of 
Jane Taylor, of our own Miss Dix, and of a host of others, whose 
names are written in the universal heart ; some of whom " do rest 
from their labours," and all of whose works shall live after them ? 
For ever honoured, and through these renowned, be the sisterhood 
of Old Maids. 



THE SONNET. 



There are people who seem to think that an intellectual taste 
for certain kinds of poetry, or an ear for Italian music are to be 
acquired ; like a physical relish for olives, tomatoes, or macaroni ! 
That even cultivated minds cannot appreciate some styles of poetic 



ELIZABETH C. KINNEY. 241 

composition, so as to feel the sentiment conveyed in them, till 
familiarized to the form of conveyance : and that no ear — however 
delicately attuned by the great Master — can naturally enjoy the 
soul of melody that gushes from the throats of Italia' s songsters, 
because Art commingles the melting strains into harmonious pas- 
sages, giving unity to multij)licity of sound; as it weaves into 
musical feet the inborn idea — the breathing thought of poesy. 
We should like to have all who say they can enjoy natural, but not 
artistic music, visit an aviary in the season of song ; when some 
fifty vocal throats — pitched on as many keys — are striving to 
drown one another's tones : we never hear such a discord " of 
sweet sounds" from Nature's undrilled troupe, without thinking, if 
it were possible for Art to harmonize the warblers' voices together, 
what a tide of affluent melody would overpower the senses ! And 
would it be less Nature s music than before ? 

The truth is, that such as hear only artificial tones from Italy's 
5orw-songsters — made artists by study and practice — have not the 
ear for natural melody that they boast of; but one in sympathy 
with discordant sounds. So he that cannot recognise at once the 
native soul of poetry, in whatever form presented, has imagined 
himself an admirer of poetry, when only in love with certain forms 
of expression and musical cadences, while insensible to the spirit and 
power of the poetic thought they embody; and he is so constituted 
in mind as never to acquire any true appreciation of at least one 
form of the beautiful. We noticed recently in a periodical paper 
a Sonnet introduced by the following paragraph : 

" We have an utter, relentless, unmitigated dislike, aversion, 
horror, for those fourteen-lined efiusions, called Sonnets. They 
remind us of a child struggling to walk in swaddling clothes. They 
are puny ideas on stilts. They have a central thought, which, like 
the centre of gravity, is never seen. The poor thing flounders 
about like a man running tied up in a sack. It is a puzzle for 
children of a larger growth. Like a glass thread, one wonders 
how it is spun, or how the apple got into the dumplings !" 

Nor is the above the expression of an uncommon sentiment 

regarding Sonnets. Now, no lover of the Sonnet will affirm that 
31 



242 ELIZABETH C. KINNEY. 

even its beautiful form of composition, ever so artistically wrought 
out of rich material, can aflfect the hum.an mind, unless the vital 
spark animates the whole, any more than other forms of art through 
which no spiritual meaning is conveyed. But he, who in a true 
Sonnet can see nothing but the imaginary laborious process of its 
execution, would probably stand before a Grecian temple calculating 
the labour and manner of its construction ; while the lover of Art, 
blind to its processes, in silent awe worshipped the grandeur of its 
complete manifestation. 

A Sonnet, in the highest sense, naturally obeys the law of art, 
which is to conceal its processes. And where, in the Sonnets of 
Petrarch, of Milton, of Shakspeare, of Coleridge, or of Wordsworth, 
can any " anointed eye" see the least shadow of constraint, or 
trace of effort ? So unconstrainedly do the poetic language and 
imagery arrange their metrical feet in the beautiful order of the 
Sonnet, — while the one luminous idea, like electricity, runs through 
the whole, — that the mind which can perceive, sees only the radiant 
thought, yet feels that a harmonious chain is its conductor. 

Nor is the Sonnet such an effort to the poet, as the machine 
poetaster or mechanical reader may suppose. All will allow that 
love utters itself through the most natural forms of expression. 
Petrach's love for Laura gave birth to the Sonnet : it was not the 
invention of mechanical genius : but a living creation, that owes its 
being to the strong emotions of hopeless passion. And, if, when 
reproduced in its original likeness, its beauty and vital power 
are unfelt, depend upon it, the fault is not in the Sonnet. 

Born in Italy — and how can anything lack music or warmth that 
originated under those glowing skies ? — and introduced into England 
by Lord Surrey, the Sonnet has for centuries been the medium of 
conveying and receiving the richest gems of poetic thought and 
fancy. In our opinion, "Wordsworth's Sonnets, save one or two 
Odes, are worth all his other poems ; and he has said, 

"Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have froAvned, 
Mindless of its just honours ; ivith this key 
Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody 
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 



ELIZABETH C. KINNEY. 243 

A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 

Camoens soothed with it an exile's grief; 

The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 

His visionary brow : a glow-=worm lamp, 
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Fairy-land 

To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 

The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew 

Soul-animating strains — alas, too few I" 

But the Sonnet is not confined to the Old World :— certain also 
of our own poets have with this magic "key" unlocked the heart; 
with this "glow-worm lamp," shed light into the enshrouded mind ; 
with this "pipe," awakened tones musical as the shepherd god sent 
through Arcadian vales ; with this "myrtle leaf," made green again 
the cypress-crowned brow ; with this " trumpet," sounded the victory 
of the spirit over human passions and earth-born hopes. 

"And what shall we say more ? Time would fail us to tell of" 
all that the Sonnet has effected — of all who have made it the 
mighty instrument for the soul's unwritten music. 



HAURIET FARLEY. 



Soon after the commencement of the present century, a young minister, 
named Stephen Farley, was settled in the beautiful town of Claremont, 
New Hampshire, his native State ; and, as the rich soil on the banks of 
the Connecticut was full of good things for the present, and good promise 
for the future ; as the lively falls of Sugar river could be induced to turn 
their active energies to the accumulation of comforts and wealth ; the new 
preacher was easily persuaded to bring a young bride to alleviate his cares 
and heighten his joys. She was born in Massachusetts, the child of a 
father who had derived so rich an inheritance that, in her early childhood, 
it might not have been supposed the daughter would ever be called upon 
to eke out a frugally genteel subsistence by school teaching. Such, how- 
ever, was her employment in Maine, where she went to reside with her 
mother, after the sudden death of her father. That mother was of the 
celebrated " Moody" family, so well known once throughout New Eng- 
land, and not yet extinct, being still, whether on the high seas, or near 
the forests of their native State, or in the metropolis of that section of the 
country, or at the capital of the Union, or away in the new cities of the 
far West — being everywhere distinguished for cultivation, urbanity, hos- 
pitality, family pride, patriotism, and all those qualities which distinguish 
the gentr}'' of the " old school." 

" Father Moody," so often quoted in the provincial history of New 
England, was the ancestor of this family. " Handkerchief Moody," his 
son, the hero of Hawthorne's story of " The Minister's Veil," is embalmed 
in many memories for his piety and affliction. He committed an acci- 
dental murder, and ever after covered his face from his fellow men. 
"Master Moody," the celebrated preceptor of '' Dummer Academy," 
wished that his niece had been a man, that he might have given her a 
collegiate education. She was remarkable not only for intellectual quali- 
ties, but for the graceful dignity becoming to any woman. 

(244) 



HARRIET FARLEY. 245 

After her liusband's death, she went with her children to the old town 
of York, in the District of Maine, and thither the young New Hampshire 
minister repaired to find, in her daughter, his future helpmeet. She was 
a beautiful and very animated woman, with fine taste, much wit, and 
unusual conversational powers. Among her rejected admirers Avere those 
who have since become Judges, and otherwise " potent, grave, and reverend 
seigniors." The calm, studious, sober minister, was her choice ; and, in 
an humble country cottage, she reared her little brood of children. 

But afilictions came. Ill health and mental disquiet, the conflict of a 
speculative mind with venerated creeds and cherished belief, impaired the 
energies of the father. And then the dark cloud, that had cast its gloom 
over Handkerchief Moody's life, and settled in blackness over, the close of 
her father's, cast its fearful shadow upon the mother's mind ; and, through 
her, a sombre shade upon her family. Some years after, the mental sun 
broke through this cloud, and shone for a long time within the home- 
stead ; then again came the sad eclipse which, in this world, may never 
pass away. During the interval of brightness, came the tenth, and last, 
of the household band, more than half of whom have been taken away." 

Harriet Farley was the sixth of these children. She was born amidst 
the beautiful scenery of the Connecticut valley, but educated, principally, 
in the quiet town of Atkinson, New Hampshire, where her father was 
both pastor of the parish and preceptor of the academy. 

Prior to her fifteenth year, her advantages were good for obtaining an 
English and classical education. But she often expresses her regret that 
these advantages were not duly appreciated; that she was deprived in a 
great measure of a mother's influence, and gave to light literature and 
social enjoyment too much of the golden hours that should have been de- 
voted to more solid intellectual acquisitions. 

At the age of fifteen the truth came home to the poor minister's daugh- 
ter, that upon herself she must henceforth depend for her subsistence. 
School teaching, sewing, straw plaiting, and shoe binding, were succes- 
sively tried, but none suited ; and so she went to the factory. Here she 
perseveringly laboured for several years, returning home when the sick 
or dying required her presence, and once leaving the mills for several 
months to attend school. 

In 1840 the "Improvement Circle" was established, to which she 
became a constant contributor. Soon after, the establishment of the 
" Lowell Ofiering" disseminated the knowledge of these mill-girls' efforts 
throughout our own and other countries. Though the work first attracted 
attention as a mere literary novelty, it was not destitute of intrinsic merit; 
and the writers were stimulated by praise and patronage. Miss Farley 
was invited to edit the third volume, a task which she combined with mill- 
labour. With editorial labours she combined the care of the '' Home 
Department," in publishing the fourth, fifth, and sixth volumes. 



246 HARRIET FARLEY. 

The seventh volume she edited and published alone, charging herself 
with all the duties of editor, publisher, and agent. The book-keeping, 
mailing, canvassing, and all else, devolved on her. Since that time she 
has employed an assistant, to mail the numbers, keep office, and accounts, 
and do the stitching and folding. 

She has contributed but little to other publications. Her literary 
claims and history are pretty much confined to that of the "Offering." 
This work has gained kind notices, in Great Britain, Germany, and 
France, from eminent literati. Compilations from it have been pub- 
lished in England and Scotland, and there have been some translations in 
foreign tongues. 

The first article, written expressly for publication, was '' Abby's Year 
in Lowell," a story which was reprinted in Edinburgh, by the Messrs. 
Chambers, in their series of cheap publications for the million. It is, 
perhaps, as good a specimen of her style as can be given. 



ABBY'S YEAK IN LOWELL. 

" Mr. Atkins, I say ! Husband, wby can't you speak ? Do 
you hear what Abby says ?" 

" Anything worth hearing ?" was the responsive question of Mr. 
Atkins ; and he laid down the New Hampshire Patriot, and peered 
over his spectacles with a look which seemed to say, that an event 
so uncommon deserved particular attention. 

" Why, she says that she means to go to Lowell, and work in 
the factory." 

"Well, wife, let her go;" and Mr. Atkins took up the Patriot 
again. 

" But I do not see how I can spare her ; the spring cleaning is 
not done, nor the soap made, nor the boys' summer clothes ; and 
you say that you intend to board your own 'men-folks,' and keep 
two more cows than you did last year ; and Charley can scarcely 
go alone. I do not see how I can get along without her." 

"But you say she does not assist you any about the house." 

" Well, husband, she might" 

" Yes, she might do a great many things which she does not 
think of doing ; and as I do not see that she means to be useful 
here, we will let her go to the factory." 



HARRIET FARLEY. 247 

"Father! are you in earnest? May I go to Lowell?" said 
Abby ; and she raised her bright black eyes to her father's with a 
look of exquisite delight. 

" Yes, Abby, if you will promise me one thing ; and that is, that 
you will stay a whole year without visiting us, excepting in case 
of sickness, and that you will stay but one year." 

" I will promise anything, father, if you will only let me go ; for 
I thought you would say that I had better stay at home and pick 
rocks, and weed the garden, and drop corn, and rake hay ; and I 
do not want to do such work any longer. May I go with the 
Slater girls next Tuesday, for that is the day they have set for 
their return ?" 

"Yes, Abby, if you will remember that you are to stay a year, 
and only one year." 

Abby retired to rest that night with a heart fluttering with plea- 
sure ; for ever since the visit of the Slater girls with new silk 
dresses, and Navarino bonnets trimmed with flowers, and lace veils, 
and gauze handkerchiefs, her head had been filled with visions of 
fine clothes ; and she thought if she could only go where she could 
dress like them, she should be completely happy. She was natu- 
rally very fond of dress, and often, while a little girl, had she sat 
on the grass bank by the roadside watching the stage which went 
daily by her father's retired dwelling ; and when she saw the gay 
ribbons and smart shawls, which passed like a bright phantom 
before her wondering eyes, she had thought that, when older, she 
too would have such things ; and she looked forward to womanhood 
as to a state in which the chief pleasure must consist in wearing 
fine clothes. 

But as years passed over her, she became aware that this was a 
source from which she could never derive any enjoyment whilst she 
remained at home ; for her father was neither able nor willing to 
gratify her in this respect, and she had begun to fear that she must 
always wear the same brown cambric bonnet, and that the same 
calico gown would always be her " go-to-meeting dress." And now 
what a bright picture had been formed by her ardent and unculti- 
vated imagination ! Yes, she would go to Lowell, and earn all that 



248 HARRIET FARLEY. 

she possibly could, and spend those earnings in beautiful attire ; 
she would have silk dresses — one of grass green, and another of 
cherry red, and another upon the colour of which she would decide 
when she purchased it ; and she would have a new Navarino bon- 
net, far more beautiful than Judith Slater's ; and when at last she 
fell asleep, it was to dream of satin and lace, and her glowing 
fancy revelled all night in a vast and beautiful collection of milli- 
ners' finery. 

But very different were the dreams of Abby's mother; and 
when she awoke the next morning, her first words to her husband 
were, "Mr. Atkins, were you serious last night when you told 
Abby that she might go to Lowell ? I thought at first that you 
were vexed because I interrupted you, and said it to stop the 
conversation." 

" Yes, wife, I was serious, and you did not interrupt me, for I 
had been listening to all that you and Abby were saying. She is 
a wild, thoughtless girl, and I hardly knoAV what if is best to do 
with her ; but perhaps it will be as well to try an experiment, and 
let her think and act a little while for herself. I expect that she 
will spend all her earnings in fine clothes ; but after she has done 
so, she may see the folly of it ; at all events, she will be rather 
more likely to understand the value of money when she has been 
obliged to work for it. After she has had her own way for one 
year, she may possibly be willing to return home and become a 
little more steady, and be willing to devote her active energies 
(for she is a very capable girl) to household duties, for hitherto 
her services have been principally out of doors, where she is now 
too old to work. I am also Avilling that she should see a little of 
the world, and what is going on in it; and I hope that, if she 
receives no benefit, she will at least return to us uninjured." 

"Oh, husband, I have many fears for her," was the reply of 
Mrs. Atkins, " she is so very giddy and thoughtless ; and the 
Slater girls are as hairbrained as herself, and will lead her on in 
all sorts of folly. I wish you would tell her that she must stay at 
home." 



HARRIET FARLEY. 249 

" I have made a promise," said Mr. Atkins, " and I will keep it ; 
and Abby, I trust, will keep hers." 

Abbj flew round in high spirits to make the necessary prepara- 
tions for her departure, and her mother assisted her with a heavy 
heart. 



The evening before she left home, her father called her to him, 
and fixing upon her a calm, earnest, and almost mournful look, he 
said, " Abby, do you ever think ?" Abby was subdued and almost 
awed by her father's look and manner. There was something unu- 
sual in it — something in his expression which was unexpected in 
him, but which reminded her of her teacher's look at the Sabbath 
school, when he was endeavouring to impress upon her mind some 
serious truth. 

"Yes, father," she at length replied, "I have thought a great 
deal lately about going to Lowell." 

" But I do not believe, my child, that you have had one serious 
reflection upon the subject, and I fear that I have done wrong in 
consenting to let you go from home. If I were too poor to main- 
tain you here, and had no employment about Avhich you could make 
yourself useful, I should feel no self-reproach, and would let you 
go, trusting that all might yet be well ; but now I have done what 
I may at some future time severely repent of; and, Abby, if you 
do not wish to make me wretched, you will return to us a better, 
milder, and more thoughtful girl." 

That night Abby reflected more seriously than she had ever done 
in her life before. Her father's words, rendered more impressive 
by the look and tone with which they were delivered, had sunk into 
her heart as words of his had never done before. She had been 
surprised at his ready acquiescence in her wishes, but it had now a 
new meaning. She felt that she was about to be abandoned to 
herself, because her parents despaired of being able to do anything 
for her ; they thought her too wild, reckless, and untameable to be 
softened by aught but the stern lessons of experience. I Avill sur- 
prise them, said she to herself; I will show them that I have some 
32 



250 HAER IE T FARLEY. 

reflection ; and after I come home, my father shall never ask me 
if I tliinh. Yes, I know what their fears are, and I will let them 
see that I can take care of myself, and as good care as they have 
ever taken of me. I know that I have not done as well as I might 
have done ; but I will begin iioui, and Avhen I return, they shall see 
that I am a better, milder, and more thoughtful girl. And the 
money which I intended to spend in fine dress shall be jDut into the 
bank ; I will save it all, and my father shall see that I can earn 
money, and take care of it too. Oh how different I will be from 
what they think I am ; and how very glad it will make my father 
and mother to see that I am not so very bad after all ! 

New feelings and new ideas had begotten new resolutions, and 
Abby's dreams that night were of smiles from her mother, and 
words from her father, such as she had never received nor deserved. 

When she bade them farewell the next morning, she said nothing 
of the change which had taken place in her views and feelings, for 
she felt a slight degree of self-distrust in her own firmness of 
purpose. 

Abby's self-distrust was commendable and auspicious ; but she 
had a very prominent development in that part of the head where 
phrenologists locate the organ of firmness ; and when she had once 
determined upon a thing, she usually went through with it. She 
had now resolved to pursue a course entirely different from that 
which was expected of her, and as different from the one she had 
first marked out for herself. This was more difficult, on account 
of her strong propensity for dress, a love of which was freely grati- 
fied by her companions. But when Judith Slater pressed her to 
purchase this beautiful piece of silk, or that splendid piece of mus- 
lin, her constant reply Avas, " No, I have determined not to buy 
any such things, and I will keep my resolution." 

Before she came to Lowell, she wondered, in her simplicity, how 
people could live where there were so many stores, and not spend 
all their money ; and it now required all her firmness to resist being 
overcome by the tempting display of beauties which met her eyes 
whenever she promenaded the illuminated streets. It was hard to 
walk by the milliners' shops with an unwavering step ; and when 



HARRIET FARLEY. 251 

she came to the confection aries, she could not help stopping. But 
she did not yield to the temptation ; she did not spend her money 
in them. When she saw fine strawberries, she said to herself, " I 
can gather them in our own pasture next year;" when she looked 
upon the nice peaches, cherries, and plums, which stood in tempting 
array behind their crystal barriers, she said again, " I will do with- 
out them this summer ;" and when apples, pears, and nuts, were 
offered to her for sale, she thought that she would eat none of them 
till she went home. But she felt that the only safe place for her 
earnings was the savings' bank, and there they were regularly 
deposited, that it might be out of her power to indulge in moment- 
ary whims. She gratified no feeling but a newly-awakened desire 
for mental improvement, and spent her leisure hours in reading 
useful books. 

Abby's year was one of perpetual self-contest and self-denial ; 
but it was by no means one of unmitigated misery. The ruling 
desire of years was not to be conquered by the resolution of a mo- 
ment ; but when the contest was over, there was for her the tri- 
umph of victory. If the battle was sometimes desperate, there 
was so much more merit in being conqueror. One Sabbath was 
spent in tears, because Judith Slater did not wish her to attend 
their meeting with such a dowdy bonnet; and another fellow- 
boarder thought her gown must have been made in " the year one." 
The colour mounted to her cheeks, and the lightning flashed from 
her eyes, when asked if she had '^just come down;'' and she felt 
as though she should be glad to be away from them all, when she 
heard their sly innuendoes about "bush-whackers." Still she re- 
mained unshaken. It is but for a year, said she to herself, and the 
time and money that my father thought I should spend in folly 
shall be devoted to a better purpose. 



At the close of a pleasant April day, Mr. Atkins sat at his 
kitchen fireside, with Charley upon his knee. "Wife," said he to 
Mrs. Atkins, who was busily preparing the evening meal, " is it 
not a year since Abby left home ?" 



252 HARRIET FARLEY. 

" Why, husband, let me think : I always clean up the house 
thoroughly just before fast-day, and I had not done it when Abby 
went away. I remembei' speaking to her about it, and telling her 
that it was wrong to leave me at such a busy time ; and she said, 
' Mother, I will be at home to do it all next year.' Yes, it is a 
year, and I should not be surprised if she should come this week." 

"Perhaps she will not come at all," said Mr. Atkins, with a 
gloomy look ; " she has written us but few letters, and they have 
been very short and unsatisfoctory, I suppose she has sense 
enough to know that no news is better than bad news ; and having 
nothing pleasant to tell about herself, she thinks she will tell us 
nothing at all. But if I ever get her home again, I will keep her 
here. I assure you her first year in Lowell shall also be her last." 

" Husband, I told you my fears, and if you had set up your 
authority, Abby would have been obliged to stay at home ; but 
perhaps she is doing pretty well. You know she is not accustolned 
to writing, and that may account for the few and short letters we 
have received ; but they have all, even the shortest, contained the 
assurance that she would be at home at the close of the year." 

"Pa, the stage has stopped here," said little Charley, and he 
bounded from his father's knee. The next moment the room rang 
with the shout of "Abby has come ! Abby has come !" 

In a few moments more she was in the midst of the joyful 
throng. Her father pressed her hand in silence, and tears gushed 
from her mother's eyes. Her brothers and sisters were clamorous 
with delight, all but little Charley, to whom Abby was a stranger, 
and who repelled with terror all her overtures for a better acquaint- 
ance. Her parents gazed upon her with speechless pleasure, for 
they felt that a change for the better had taken place in their once 
wayward girl. Yes, there she stood before them, a little taller and 
a little thinner, and, when the flush of emotion had faded away, 
perhaps a little paler ; but the eyes were bright in their joyous 
radiance, and the smile of health and innocence was playing around 
the rosy lips. She carefully laid aside her new straw-bonnet, with 
its plain trimming of light-blue ribbon, and her dark merino dress 
showed to the best advantage her neat symmetrical form. There 



HARRIET FARLEY. 253 

was more delicacy of personal appearance than when she left them, 
and also more softness of manner ; for constant collision with so 
many young females had worn off the little asperities which had 
marked her conduct while at home. 

"Well, Ahby, how many silk gowns have you got?" said her 
father, as she opened a large new trunk. 

"Not one, father," said she, and she fixed her dark eyes upon 
him with an expression which told all. " But here are some little 
books for the children, and a new calico dress for mother ; and 
here is a nice black silk handkerchief for you to wear around your 
neck on Sundays. Accept it, dear father, it is your daughter's 
first gift." 

" You had better have bought me a pair of spectacles, for I am 
sure I cannot see anything." There were tears in the rough 
farmer's eyes, but he tried to laugh and joke, that they might not 
be perceived. " But w^hat did you do with all your money ?" 

"I thought I had better leave it there," said Abby, and she 
placed her bank-book in her father's hand. Mr. Atkins looked a 
moment, and the forced smile faded away. The surprise had been 
too great, and tears fell thick and fast from the father's eyes. 

"It is but a little," said Abby. 

" But it was all you could save," replied her father, " and I am 
proud of you, Abby; yes, proud that I am the father of such a girl. 
It is not this paltry sum which pleases me so much, but the prudence, 
self-command, and real affection for us which you have displayed. 
But was it not sometimes hard to resist temptation ?" 

" Yes, father, you can never know how hard ; but it was the 
thought of this night which sustained me through it all. I knew 
how you would smile, and what my mother would say and feel ; 
and though there have been moments, yes, hours, that have seen 
me wretched enough, yet this one evening will repay for all. There 
is but one thing now to mar my happiness, and that is the thought 
that this little fellow has quite forgotten me," and she drew Charley 
to her side. But the new picture-book had already effected wonders, 
and in a few moments he was in her lap, with his arms around her 



254 HARRIET FARLEY. 

neck, and his mother could not persuade him to retire that night 
until he had given " Sister Abby" a hundred kisses. 

"Father," said Abby, as she arose to retire when the tall clock 
struck eleven, " may I not some time go back to Lowell ? I should 
like to add a little to the sum in the bank, and I should be glad of 
one silk gown." 

"Yes, Abby, you may do anything you wish. I shall never 
again be afraid to let you spend a year in Lowell. You have 
shown yourself to be possessed of a virtue, without which no one 
can expect to gain either respect or confidence — Self-Denial." 



"). 



MARY H. EASTMAN. 



Mary Henderson, now Mrs. Mary H. Eastman, was born in Warren- 
ton, Fauquier county, Virginia. Her father is Dr. Thomas Henderson, 
of the U. S. Army; her mother is a daughter of the well known naval 
commander. Commodore Truxtun. Her parents left Warrenton while she 
was still young, and removed to the city of Washington, where she lived 
till the time of her marriage, which took place at West Point, in 1835. 
Her husband, Captain S. Eastman, of the U. S. Army, is a graduate of 
the West Point Academy. Since his graduation, which was in 1829, he 
has spent most of his time in frontier stations, chiefly at Fort Snelling, 
where he was for a period of nine years. Mrs. Eastman was with him the 
greater part of this time. While there she had more favourable opportu- 
nities, probably, for studying the Indian character and customs than were 
ever possessed by any lady before. Having enjoyed while young the 
advantages of an excellent education, and possessing intellectual gifts of a 
high order, as well as much natural shrewdness of observation, she employed 
herself in gathering up cui'ious Indian lore, which, since her return to the 
abodes of civilization, she has communicated to the public in several very 
interesting publications. The first of these was published in 1849, and 
entitled ''Dahcotah, or Legends of the Sioux." The second series of 
papers was published in 1851, of the same character as " Dahcotah." 
These all consist of stories, sketches, poems, &c., relating to the Sioux and 
Chippeway Indians, whom she saw at and near Fort Snelling. A third 
work, called the " Aboriginal Portfolio," in quarto, appeared in 1853 ; and 
still a fourth, of the same general character, but relating chiefly to the 
Indian tribes of Pueblos in New Mexico, is now in press (1854). 

Of all the portraitures of Indian life and character that have been given 
to the public, none, probably, have come more nearly to the truth than 
those by Mrs. Eastman. Her books are among the very best contributions 

(255) 



258 MARY 11. EASTMAN. 

to our native literature that have lately appeared. Her descriptions are 
happily free from the prevailing bombast and extravagance. She has the 
faculty — rare among her sex — of saying much in little space, and of saying 
that much with commendable precision. She conceives strongly what she 
means to say, and says it directly and in good English. 

Besides her Indian books, Mrs. Eastman made, in 1852, a successful 
hit in another walk of literature. When " Uncle Tom's Cabin" was at 
the height of its popularity, she published a reply, under the title of 
"Aunt Phillis's Cabin," a novel in form, but abounding in sharp retort 
and hard argument. Eighteen thousand copies of this work were sold in a 
few weeks. 



SHAH-CO-PEE. 

No one who lias lived at Fort Snelling can ever forget Shah-co- 
pee, for at what house has he not called to shake hands and smoke, 
to say that he is a great chief, and that he is hungry and must eat 
before he starts for home ? If the hint is not immediately acted 
upon, he adds that the sun is dying fast, and it is time for him to 
set out. 

Shah-co-pee is not so tall or fine looking as Bad Hail, nor has he 
the fine Roman features of Old Man in the Cloud. His face is 
decidedly ugly ; but there is an expression of intelligence about his 
quick black eye and fine forehead, that makes him friends, notwith- 
standing his many troublesome qualities. 

When he speaks he uses a great deal of gesture, suiting the action 
to the word. His hands, which are small and well formed, are 
black with dirt ; he does not descend to the duties of the toilet. 

He is the orator of the Dahcotahs. No matter how trifling the 
occasion, he talks well ; and assumes an air of importance that 
would become him if he were discoursing on matters of life and 
death. 

Some years ago, our government wished the Chippeways and 
Dahcotahs to conclude a treaty of peace among themselves. Fre- 
quently have these two bands made peace, but rarely kept it any 
length of time. On this occasion many promises Avere made on 



MARY II. EASTMAN. 257 

both sides ; promises whicli -would be broken by some inconsiderate 
young warrior before long, and then retaliation must follow. 

Shali-co-pee lias great influence among the Dahcotahs, and he 
was to come to Fort Snelling to be present at the council of peace. 
Early in the morning he and about twenty warriors left their vil- 
lage on the banks of the St. Peter's, for the Fort. 

When they were very near, so that their actions could be dis- 
tinguished, they assembled in their canoes, drawing them close 
together, that they might hear the speech which their chief was 
about to make to them. 

They raised the stars and stripes, and their own flag, which is a 
staff" adorned with feathers from the war eagle ; and the noon-day 
sun gave brilliancy to their gay dresses, and the feathers and orna- 
ments that they wore. 

Shah-co-pee stood straight and firm in his canoe — and not the 
less proudly that the walls of the Fort towered above him. 

"My boys," he said (for thus he always addressed his men) " the 
Dahcotahs are all braves ; never has a coward been known among 
the People of the Spirit Lakes. Let the women and children fear 
their enemies, but we will face our foes, and always conquer. 

" We are going to talk with the white men ; our great Father 
wishes us to be at peace with our enemies. We have long enough 
shed the blood of the ChippeAvays ; we have danced round their 
scalps, and our children have kicked their heads about in the dust. 
What more do we want ? When we are in council, listen to the 
words of the Interpreter as he tells us what our great Father says, 
and I will answer him for you ; and when we have eaten, and 
smoked the pipe of peace, we will return to our village." 

The chief took his seat with all the importance of a public bene- 
factor. He intended to have all the talking to himself, to arrange 
matters according to his own ideas ; but he did it with the utmost 
condescension, and his warriors were satisfied. 

Besides being an orator, Shah-co-pee is a beggar, and one of a 

high order too, for he will neither take offence nor refusal. Tell 

him one day that you will not give him pork and flour, and on the 

next he returns, nothing daunted, shaking hands, and asking for 
S3 



*258 MARY II. EASTMAN. 

pork and flour. He always gains his point, for you are obliged to 
give in order to get rid of him. He will take up his quarters at 
the Interpreter's, and come down upon you every day for a week 
just at meal time — and as he is always blessed with a ferocious 
appetite, it is much better to capitulate, come to terms by giving 
him what he wants, and let him go. And after he has once started, 
ten to one if he does not come back to say he wants to shoot and 
bring you some ducks ; you must give him powder and shot to 
enable him to do so. That will probably be the last of it. 



It was a beautiful morning in June when we left Fort Snelling 
to go on a pleasure party up the St. Peter's, in a steamboat, the 
first that had ever ascended that river. There were many draw- 
backs in the commencement, as there always are on such occasions. 
The morning was rather cool, thought some, and as they hesitated 
about going, of course their toilets were delayed till the last 
moment. And when all were fairly in the boat, wood was yet 
to be found. Then something was the matter with one of the 
wheels — and the mothers were almost sorry they had consented to 
come ; while the children, frantic with joy, were in danger of 
being drowned every moment, by the energetic movements they 
made near the sides of the boat, by way of indicating their satis- 
faction at the state of things. 

In the cabin, extensive preparations were making in case the 
excursion brought on a good appetite. Everybody contributed 
loaf upon loaf of bread and cake ; pies, coffee, and sugar ; cold 
meats of every description ; with milk and cream in bottles. Now 
and then, one of these was broken or upset, by w^ay of adding to 
the confusion, which was already intolerable. 

Champagne and old Cogniac were brought by the young gentle- 
men, only for fear the ladies should be sea-sick ; or, perhaps, in 
case the gentlemen should think it positively necessary to drink 
the ladies' health. 

When we thought all was ready, there was still another delay. 



MARY H. EASTMAN. 259 

Shah-co-pee and two of Ms warriors were seen coming down the 
hill, the chief making an animated appeal to some one on board 
the boat ; and as he reached the shore he gave us to understand 
that his business was concluded, and that he would like to go with 
us. But it was very evident that he considered his company a 
favour. 

The bright sun brought warmth, and we sat on the upper deck 
admiring the beautiful shores of the St. Peter's. Not a creature 
was to be seen for some distance on the banks, and the birds as 
they flew over our heads seemed to be the fit and only inhabitants 
of such a region. 

When tired of admiring the scenery, there was enough to employ 
us. The table was to be set for dinner ; the children had already 
found out which basket contained the cake, and they were casting 
admiring looks towards it. 

When we were all assembled to partake of some refreshments, 
It was delightful to find that there were not enough chairs for half 
the party. We borrowed each others' knives and forks, too, and 
etiquette, that petty tyrant of society, retired from the scene. 

Shah-co-pee found his way to the cabin, Avhere he manifested 
strong symptoms of shaking hands over again ; in order to keep 
him quiet, we gave him plenty to eat. IIow he seemed to enjoy a 
piece of cake that had accidentally dropped into the oyster-soup ! 
and with equal gravity would he eat apple-pie and ham together. 
And then his cry of "wakun"* when the cork flew from the cham- 
pagne bottle across the table ! 

How happily the day passed — how few such days occur in the 
longest life ! 

As Shah-co-pee's village appeared in sight, the chief addressed 

Colonel D , who was at that time in command of Fort Snel- 

ling, asking him why we had come on such an excursion. 

" To escort you home," was the ready reply ; "you are a great 
chief, and worthy of being honoured, and we have chosen this as 
the best way of showing our respect and admiration of you." 

The Dahcotah chief believed all ; he never for a moment 

* Mysterious. 



260 . M A R Y H . E A S T M A N . 

thought there was anything like jesting on the subject of his 
own high mei'its ; his face beamed with delight on receiving such 
a compliment. 

The men and women of the village crowded on the shore as 
the boat landed, as well they might, for a steamboat was a new 
sight to them. 

The chief sprang from the boat, and swelling with pride and 
self-admiration he took the most conspicuous station on a rock 
near the shore, among his people, and made them a speech. 

We could but admire his native eloquence. Here, with all that 
is wild in nature surrounding him, did the untaught orator address 
his people. His lips gave rapid utterance to thoughts which did 
honour to his feelings, when we consider who and what he was. 

He told them that the white people were their friends ; that 
they wished them to give up murder and intemperance, and to live 
quietly and happily. They taught them to plant corn, and they 
were anxious to instruct their children. "When we are suffering,' 
said he, " during the cold weather, from sickness or want of food 
they give us medicine and bread." 

And finally he told them of the honour that had been paid him 
" I went, as you know, to talk with the big Captain of the Fort 
and he, knowing the bravery of the Dahcotahs, and that I was a 
great chief, has brought me home, as you see. Never has a Dah 
cotah warrior been thus honoured !" 

Never, indeed ! But we took care not to undeceive him. It was 
a harmless error, and as no efforts on our part could have diminished 
his self-importance, we listened with apparent, indeed with real admi- 
ration of his eloquent speech. The women brought ducks on board, 
and in exchange we gave them bread ; and it was evening as we 
watched the last teepee of Shah-co-pee's village fade away in the 
distance. 



Shah-co-pee has looked rather grave lately. There is trouble 
in the wigwam. 

The old chief is the husband of three wives, and they and their 



MARY H. EASTMAN. • 261 

children are always fighting. The first wife is old as the hills, 
wrinkled and haggard ; the chief cares no more for her than he 
does for the stick of wood she is chopping. She quarrels with 
everybody but him, and this prevents her from being quite 
forgotten. 

The day of the second wife is past too, it is of no use for her 
to plait her hair and put on her ornaments; for the old chief's 
heart is wrapped up in his third wife. 

The girl did not love him, how could she ? and he did not suc- 
ceed in talking her into the match ; but he induced the parents to 
sell her to him, and the young wife went weeping to the teepee of 
the chief. 

Hers was a sad fate. She hated her husband as much as he 
loved her. No presents could reconcile her to her situation. The 
two forsaken wives never ceased annoying her, and their children 
assisted them. The young wife had not the courage to resent 
their ill treatment, for the loss of her lover had broken her heart. 
But that lover did not seem to be in such despair as she was — he 
did not quit the village, or drown himself, or commit any act of 
desperation. He lounged and smoked as much as ever. On one 
occasion, when Shah-co-pee was absent from the village, the lovers 
met. 

They had to look well around them, for the two old wives were 
always on the lookout for something to tell of the young one ; but 
there was no one near. The wind whistled keenly round the bend 
of the river as the Dahcotah told the weeping girl to listen to him. 

When had she refused ? How had she longed to hear the sound 
of his voice when wearied to death with the long boastings of the 
old chief! 

But how did her heart beat when Red Stone told her that he 
loved her still — that he had only been waiting an opportunity to 
induce her to leave her old husband, and go with him far away ! 

She hesitated a little, but not long; and when Shah-co-pee 
returned to his teepee his young wife was gone — no one had seen 
her depart — no one knew where to seek for her. When the old 
man heard that Red Stone was gone too, his rage knew no bounds. 



262 • MARY H. EASTMAN. 

He beat his two wives almost .to death, and would have given his 
handsomest pipe-stem to have seen the faithless one again. 

His passion did not last long ; it would have killed him if it had. 
His wives moaned all through the night, bruised and bleeding, for 
the fault of their rival ; while the chief had recourse to the pipe, 
the never-failing refuge of the Dahcotah. 

"I thought," said the chief, "that some calamity was going to 
happen to me" (for, being more composed, he began to talk to the 
other Indians who sat with him in his teepee, somewhat after the 
manner and in the spirit of Job's friends). " I saw Unk-a-tahe, 
the great fish of the water, and it showed its horns ; and we know 
that that is always a sign of trouble." 

"Ho !" replied an old medicine man, " I remember when Unk- 
a-tahe got in under the falls" (of St. Anthony) " and broke up the 
ice. The lai-ge pieces of ice went swiftly down, and the water 
forced its way until it was frightful to see it. The trees near the 
shore were thrown down, and the small islands Avere left bare. 
Near Fort Snelling there was a house where a white man and his 
wife lived. The woman heard the noise, and, waking her husband, 
ran out ; but as he did not follow her quick enough, the house was 
soon afloat and he was drowned." 

There was an Indian camp near this house, for the body of 
Wenona, the sick girl who was carried over the Falls, was found 
here. It was placed on a scaffold on the shore, near where the 
Indians found her, and Checkered Cloud moved her teepee, to be 
near her daughter. Several other Dahcotah families were also 
near her. 

But what was their fright when they heard the ice breaking, and 
the waters roaring as they carried everything before them ? The 
father of Wenona clung to his daughter's scaffold, and no entreaties 
of his wife or others could induce him to leave. 

"Unk-a-tahe has done this," cried the old man, "and I care 
not. He carried my sick daughter under the waters, and he may 
bury me there too." And while the others fled from the power of 
Unk-a-tahe, the father and mother clung to the scaffold of their 
daughter. 



MARY II. EASTMAN. 283 

They "were saved, and they lived by the body of Wenona until 
they buried her. The power of Unk-a-tahe is great!" So spoke 
the medicine-man, and Shah-co-pee almost forgot his loss in the 
fear and admiration of this monster of the deep, this terror of the 
Dahcotahs. 

He will do well to forget the young wife altogether ; for she is 
far away, making mocassins for the man she loves. She rejoices 
at her escape from the old man, and his two wives ; while he is 
always making speeches to his men, commencing by saying he is a 
great chief, and ending with the assertion that Red Stone should 
have respected his old age, and not have stolen from him the only 
wife he loved. 



Shah-co-pee came, a few days ago, with twenty other warriors, 
some of them chiefs, on a visit to the commanding officer of Fort 
Snelling. 

The Dahcotahs had heard that the Winnebagoes were about to 
be removed, and that they were to pass through their hunting- 
grounds on their way to their future homes. They did not approve 
of this arrangement. Last summer the Dahcotahs took some scalps 
of the Winnebagoes, and it was decided at Washington that the 
Dahcotahs should pay four thousand dollars of their annuities as 
an atonement for the act. This caused much suffering among the 
Dahcotahs ; fever was making great havoc among them, and to 
deprive them of their flour and other articles of food was only 
enfeebling their constitutions, and rendering them an easy prey 
for disease. The Dahcotahs thought this very hard at the time ; 
they have not forgotten the circumstance, and they think that they 
ought to be consulted before their lands are made a thoroughfare 
by their enemies. 

They accordingly assembled, and, accompanied by the Indian 
agent and the interpreter, came to Fort Snelling to make their 
complaint. When they were all seated (all on the floor but one, 
who looked most uncomfortable, mounted on a high chair), the 
agent introduced the subject, and it was discussed for a while ; the 



264 MARY H. EASTMxiN. 

Dahcotahs paying the most profound attention, altliougli tliej 
could not understand a word of what was passing; and when 
there was a few moments' silence, the chiefs rose each in his turn 
to protest against the Winnebagoes passing through their country. 
They all spoke sensibly and well; and when one finished, the 
others all intimated their approval by crying "Ho!" as a kind 
of chorus. After a while Shah-co-pee rose ; his manner said " I 
am Sir Oracle." He shook hands with the commanding officer, 
with the agent and interpreter, and then with some strangers who 
were visiting the fort. 

His attitude was perfectly erect as he addressed the officer. 

"We are the children of our great Father, the President of the 
United States ; look upon us, for we are your children too. You 
are placed here to see that the Dahcotahs are protected, that their 
rights are not infringed upon." 

While the Indians cried " Ho ! ho !" with great emphasis, Shah- 
co-pee shook hands all round again, and then resumed his place 
and speech. 

" Once this country all belonged to the Dahcotahs. Where 
had the white man a place to call his own on our prairies ? He 
could not even pass through our country without our permission ! 

" Our great Father has signified to us that he wants our lands. 
We have sold some of them to him, and we are content to do so, 
but he has promised to protect us, to be a friend to us, to take care 
of us as a father does of his children. 

" When the white man wishes to visit us, we open the door of 
our country to him ; we treat him with hospitality. He looks at 
our rocks, our river, our trees, and we do not disturb him. The 
Dahcotah and the white man are friends. 

" But the Winnebagoes are not our friends, we suffered for them 
not long ago ; our children wanted food ; our wives were sick ; 
they could not plant corn or gather the Indian potato. Many of 
our nation died ; their bodies are now resting on their scaffolds. 
The night birds clap their wings as the winds howl over them ! 
" And we are told that our great Father will let the Winneba- 



MARY H. EASTMAN. 265 

goes make a path through our hunting-grounds : they will subsist 
upon our game ; every bird or animal they kill will be a loss to us. 

"The Dahcotah's lands are not free toothers. If our great 
Father wishes to make any use of our lands, he should pay us. 
We object to the Winnebagoes passing through our country ; but 
if it is too late to prevent this, then we demand a thousand dollars 
for every village they shall pass." 

" Ho !" cried the Indians again ; and Shah-co-pee, after shaking 
hands once more, took his seat. 

I doubt if you will ever get the thousand dollars a village. Shah- 
co-pee ; but I like the spirit that induces you to demajid it. May 
you live long to make speeches and beg bread — the unrivalled 
orator and most notorious beggar of the Dahcotahs ! 



34 



S. MAIUUIIET FULLER, 

(m A 11 II I N E a S li' OSS M . ) 

Sauaii IMauuauet ]<\ii,lku was born at Cambridgo, JMassachusettj, 
May 23, 1810. Sho was the daughter of tho lion. Timothy Fuller, a 
lawyer of IJostou, but nearly all his life a resident of Cambridge, and a 
Ivepresentativo of the JMiddlesex JVistriut in Congress from 1817 to 1825. 
IMr. Fuller, upon his retirement from Congress, purchased a farm at some 
distanee from I>i)ston, and abandoned law for agriculture, soon after 
wiru-h he (lied. His widow and six children still survive. 

IMurgaret was the lirst-born, and from a very early ago evinced tho 
possession of rtMuarkable intellectual powers. JTer father regarded her 
with a proud ailmiration, and was from childliood her chief instructor, 
guide, companion, and friend. At eight years of age he was accustomed 
to retpiire of her the composition of a number of Latin verses per day, 
while her studies in philosophy, history, general science, and current 
literature were in after years extensive and profound. After her father's 
death, she applied herself to teaching as a vocation, first in Boston, then 
in l*rovidenee, and afterwards in Uoston again, Avhcro her '' Conversa- 
tions" were for several seasons atttMuled by classes of women, some of 
them mairied, and iiicliuling many from the best families of that city. 

In the autumn of .1814, she accepted an invitation to take part in the 
conduct of " The Tribune," with especial reference to the department of 
lleviews and Criticisms on current Literature and Art, a position which 
she filled with oniinont ability for nearly two years. Her reviews of 
Longfellow's Poems, Wesley's Memoirs, Toe's Poems, Bailey's " Festus," 
Douglas's Life, »S;c., may be nuMitioned with special emphasis. She had 
previously found " lit audience, though few," for a series of remarkable 
papers on "The Great Musicians," ''Ijord Herbert of Clierluiry," 
"AVomaii," X:e., in ''The Pial," of which she was at lirst co-editor 




^- 



,^. 



'S'O 



MARCmONESS BOS SOLI., 



S. MARGARET FULLER. 267 

with Ralph Waldo Emerson, but which was afterwards edited by bim 
only, though she continued a contributor to its pages. In 1843, she 
accompanied some friends on a tour by Niagara, Detroit, and Mackinac 
to Chicago, and across the Prairies of Illinois, and her resulting volume, 
entitled " Summer on the Lakes," is considered one of the best works in 
its department ever issued from the American press. Her "■ Woman in 
the Nineteenth Century" — an extension of her essay in '' The Dial" — was 
published early in 1845, and a moderate edition sold. The next year a 
selection from her '' Papers on Literature and Art" was issued by Wiley 
& Putnam, in two fair volumes of their " Library of American Books." 
These '' Papers" embody some of her best contributions to ^' The Dial," 
"The Tribune," and perhaps one or two which had not appeared in 
either. 

In the summer of 1845, Miss Fuller accompanied the family of a 
devoted friend to Europe, visiting England, Scotland, France, and pass- 
ing through Italy to Rome, where they spent the ensuing winter. She 
accompanied her friends next spring to the north of Italy, and there 
stopped, spending most of the summer at Florence, and returning at the 
approach of winter to Rome, where she was soon after married to Grio- 
vanni. Marquis d'Ossoli, who had made her acquaintance during her first 
winter in the Eternal City. They afterwards resided in the Roman 
States until the summer of 1850, after the surrender of Rome to the 
French army of assassins of liberty, when they deemed it expedient to 
migrate to Florence, both having taken an active part in the Republican 
movement. Thence in June they departed and set sail at Leghorn for 
New York, in the Philadelphia brig Elizabeth, which was doomed to 
encounter a succession of disasters. They had not been many days at 
sea when the captain was prostrated by a disease which ultimately exhibited 
itself as confluent small-pox of the most malignant type, and terminated 
his life soon after the}'' touched at Gibraltar, after a sickness of intense 
agony and loathsome horror. The vessel was detained some days in 
quarantine by reason of this affliction, but finally set sail again just in 
season to bring her on our coast on the fearful night between the 18th 
and 19th of July, 1850, when darkness, rain, and a terrific gale from the 
south-west conspired to hurl her into the very jaws of destruction. She 
struck during the night, and before the next evening was a mass of 
drifting sticks and planks, while her passengers and part of her crew 
were buried in the boiling surges. 

Among those drowned in this fearful wreck were the Marquis and 
Marchioness d'Ossoli, and their only child. 

Miss Fuller was more remarkable for strength and vigour of thought, 
and a certain absolute and almost scornful independence, than for the 
graces of style and diction. She had the reputation of being '' the best 
talker since Madame de Stael," and by those who knew her most inti- 



268 S. MARGARET FULLER. 

niatcly her conversational powers were considered more brilliant even than 
her talents as a writer. She was, without doubt, in both respects, one of 
the most remarkable women of the present century. Her friends, R. W. 
Emerson and W. H. Channing, published in 1851 an interesting Memoir 
of her life and writings, in two volumes. 



A SHORT ESSAY ON CRITICS. 

An essay on Criticism were a serious matter ; for, though this 
age be emphatically critical, the writer would still find it necessary 
to investigate the laws of criticism as a science, to settle its condi- 
tions as an art. Essays, entitled critical, are epistles addressed to 
the public, through which the mind of the recluse relieves itself of 
its impressions. Of these the only law is, " Speak the best word 
that is in thee." Or they are regular articles got up to order by 
the literary hack writer, for the literary mart, and the only law is 
to make them plausible. There is not yet deliberate recognition 
of a standard of criticism, though Ave hope the alw'ays strength- 
ening league of the republic of letters must ere long settle laws on 
which its Amphictyonic council may act. Meanwhile let ns not 
venture to write on criticism, but, by classifying the critics, imply 
our hopes and thereby our thoughts. 

First, there are the subjective class (to make use of a convenient 
term, introduced by our German benefactors). These are persons 
to whom writing is no sacred, no reverend employment. They are 
not driven to consider, not forced upon investigation by the fact, 
that they are deliberately giving their thoughts an independent 
existence, and that it may live to others when dead to them. They 
know no agonies of conscientious research, no timidities of self- 
respect. They see no ideal beyond the present hour, which makes 
its mood an uncertain tenure. How things affect them now they 
know ; let the future, let the whole take care of itself. They state 
their impressions as they rise, of other men's spoken, written, or 
acted thoughts. They never dream of going out of themselves to 
seek the motive, to trace the law of another nature. They never 
dream that there are statures which cannot be measured from their 
point of view. They love, they like, or they hate ; the book is 



S. MARGARET FULLER. 269 

detestable, immoral, absurd, or admirable, noble, of a most ap- 
proved scope ; — these statements they make with authority, as those 
who bear the evangel of pure taste and accurate judgment, and 
need be tried before no human synod. To them it seems that their 
present position commands the universe. 

Thus the essays on the works of others, which are called criti- 
cisms, are often, in fact, mere records of impressions. To judge 
of their value you must know where the man was brought up, 
under what influences, — his nation, his church, his family even. 
He himself has never attempted to estimate the value of these 
circumstances, and find a law or raise a standard above all circum- 
stances, permanent against all influence. He is content to be the 
creature of his place, and to represent it by his spoken and Avritten 
word. He takes the same ground with a savage, who does not 
hesitate to say of the product of a civilization on which he could 
not stand, "It is bad," or "It is good." 

The value of such comments is merely reflex. They characterize 
the critic. They give an idea of certain influences on a certain 
act of men in a certain time or place. Their absolute, essential 
value is nothing. The long review, the eloquent article by the 
man of the nineteenth century, are of no value by themselves con- 
sidered, but only as samples of their kind. The Avriters were con- 
tent to tell what they felt, to praise or to denounce without needing 
to convince us or themselves. They sought not the divine truths 
of philosophy, and she proJGfers them not if unsought. 

Then there are the apprehensive. These can go out of them- 
selves and enter fully into a foreign existence. They breathe its 
life ; they live in its law ; they tell what it meant, and why it so 
expressed its meaning. They reproduce the work of which they 
speak, and make it better known to us in so far as two statements 
are better than one. There are beautiful specimens in this kind. 
They are pleasing to us as bearing witness of the genial sympathies 
of nature. They have the ready grace of love with somewhat of 
the dignity of disinterested friendship. They sometimes give more 
pleasure than the original production of which they treat, as melo- 
dies will sometimes ring sweetlier in the echo. Besides there is a 



1270 S. M AUG A RET FULLER. 

peculiar pleasure in a true response ; it is the assurance of equipoise 
in the universe. These, if not true critics, come nearer the stand- 
ard than the subjective class, and the value of their work is ideal 
as well as historical. 

Then there arc the comprehensive, Avho must also bo apprehen- 
sive. They enter into the nature of another being, and judge his 
work by its own laAV. But having done so, having ascertained his 
design and the degree of his success in fulfilling it, thus measuring 
his judgment, his energy, and skill, they do also know how to put 
that aim in its place, and liOAV to estimate its relations. And this 
the critic can only do who perceives the analogies of the universe, 
and how they are regulated by an absolute, invariable principle, 
lie can see how far that work expresses this principle, as well as 
how far it is excellent in its details. Sustained by a principle, such 
as can bo girt within no rule, no formula, he can walk around the 
work, he can stand above it, ho can uplift it, and try its Avcight. 
Finally, he is worthy to judge it. 

Critics are poets cut down, says some one by way of jeer ; but, 
in truth, they are men with the poetical temperament to apprehend, 
with the philosophical tendency to investigate. The maker is 
divine ; the critic sees this divine, but brings it down to humanity 
by the analytic process. The critic is the historian who records 
the order of creation. In vain for the maker, who knows without 
learning it, but not in vain for the mind of his race. 

The critic is beneath the maker, but is his needed friend. What 
tongue could speak but to an intelligent ear, and every noble work 
demands its critic. The richer the work, the more severe should 
be its critic ; the larger its scope, the more comprehensive must be 
his power of scrutiny. The critic is not a base caviller, but the 
younger brother of genius. Next to invention is the power of 
interpreting invention ; next to beauty the power of appreciating 
beauty. 

And of making others appreciate it ; for the universe is a scale 
of infinite gradation, and below the very highest, every step is 
explanation down to the lowest. Religion, in the tAvo modulations 
of poetry and music, descends through an infinity of waves to the 



S, MARGARET FULLER. 271 

lowest abysses of human nature. Nature is tlic literature and art 
of the divine mind ; human literature and art the criticism on that ; 
and they, too, find their criticism Avithin their own sphere. 

The critic, then, should be not merely a poet, not merely a philo- 
sopher, not merely an observer, but tempered of all three. If he 
criticise the poem, he must Avant nothing of what constitutes the 
poet, except the power of creating forms and speaking in music. 
He must have as good an eye and as fine a sense ; but if he had 
as fine an organ for expression also, he would make the poem 
instead of judging it. He must be inspired by the philosopher's 
spirit of inquiry and need of generalization, but he must not be 
constrained by the hard cemented masonry of method to which 
philosophers are prone. And he must have the organic acuteness 
of the observer, with a love of ideal perfection, which forbids him 
to be content with mere beauty of details in the work or the com- 
ment upon the work. 

There are persons who maintain, that there is no legitimate criti- 
cism, except the reproductive ; that we have only to say Avhat the 
work is or is to us, never what it is not. But the moment we look 
for a principle, we feel the need of a criterion, of a standard ; and 
then we say what the work is not, as well as what it is ; and this 
is as healthy though not as grateful and gracious an operation of 
the mind as the other. We do not seek to degrade but to classify 
an object, by stating what it is not. We detach the part from the 
whole, lest it stand between us and the whole. When we have 
ascertained in what degree it manifests the whole, we may safely 
restore it to its place, and love or admire it there ever after. 

The use of criticism, in periodical writing, is to sift, not to stamp 
a Avork. Yet should they not be " sieves and drainers for the use 
of luxurious readers," but for the use of earnest inquirers, giving 
voice and being to their objections, as well as stimulus to their 
sympathies. But the critic must not be an infallible adviser to his 
reader. He must not tell him what books are not Avorth reading, 
or what must be thought of them when read, but Avhat he read in 
them. Woe to that coterie where some critic sits despotic, en- 
trenched behind the infallible " We." Woe to that oracle who has 



272 S. MARGARET FULLER. 

infused such soft sleepiness, such a gentle dulness into his atmo- 
sphere, that -when he opes his lips no dog -will bark. It is this 
attempt at dictatorship in the reviewers, and the indolent acquies- 
cence of their readers, that has brought them into disrepute. With 
such fairness did they make out their statements, with such dignity 
did they utter their verdicts, that the poor reader grew all too 
submissive. He learned his lesson with such docility, that the 
greater part of what will be said at any public or private meeting 
can be foretold by any one who has read the leading periodical 
works for twenty years back. Scholars sneer at and would fain 
dispense with them altogether ; and the public, grown lazy and 
helpless by this constant use of props and stays, can now scarce 
brace itself even to get through a magazine article, but reads in 
the daily paper laid beside the breakfast-plate a short notice of the 
last number of the long-established and popular review, and there- 
upon passes its judgment and is content. 

Then the partisan spirit of many of these journals has made it 
unsafe to rely upon them as guide-books and expurgatory indexes. 
They could not be content merely to stimulate and suggest thought, 
they have at last become powerless to supersede it. 

From these causes and causes like these, the journals have lost 
much of their influence. There is a languid feeling about them, 
an inclination to suspect the justice of their verdicts, the value of 
their criticisms. But their golden age cannot be quite past. They 
afford too convenient a vehicle for the transmission of knowledge ; 
they are too natural a feature of our time to have done all their 
work yet. Surely they may be redeemed from their abuses, they 
may be turned to their true uses. But how ? 

It were easy to say what they should not do. They should not 
have an object to carry or a cause to advocate, which obliges them 
either to reject all writings which wear the distinctive traits of 
individual life, or to file away what does not suit them, till the 
essay, made true to their design, is made false to the mind of the 
writer. An external consistency is thus produced, at the expense 
of all salient thought, all genuine emotion of life, in short, and all 
living influence. Their purpose may be of value, but by such 



S. MARGARET FULLER. 273 

means was no valuable purpose ever furthered long. There are 
those, Avho have with the best intention pursued this system of 
trimming and adaptation, and thought it well and best to 

"Deceive their country for their country's good." 

But their country cannot long be so governed. It misses the 
pure, the full tone of truth ; it perceives that the voice is modulated 
to coax, to persuade, and it turns from the judicious man of the 
world, calculating the effect to be produced by each of his smooth 
sentences, to some earnest voice which is uttering thoughts, crude, 
rash, ill-arranged it may be, but true to one human breast, and 
uttered in full faith, that the God of Truth will guide them aright. 

And here, it seems to me, has been the greatest mistake in the 
conduct of these journals. A smooth monotony has been attained, 
an uniformity of tone, so that from the title of a journal you can 
infer the tenor of all its chapters. But nature is ever various, 
ever new, and so should be her daughters, art and literature. We 
do not w'ant merely a polite response to what we thought before, 
but by the freshness of thought in other minds to have new thought 
awakened in our own. We do not want stores of information only, 
but to be roused to digest these into knowledge. Able and expe- 
rienced men write for us, and we would know what they think, as 
they think it not for us but for themselves. We would live with 
them, rather than be taught by them how to live ; Ave would catch 
the contagion of their mental activity, rather than have them direct 
us how to regulate our own. In books, in reviews, in the senate, 
in the pulpit, we wish to meet thinking men, not schoolmasters or 
pleaders. We wish that they should do full justice to their own 
view, but also that they should be frank with us, and, if now our 
superiors, treat us as if we might some time rise to be their equals. 
It is this true manliness, this firmness in his own position, and this 
power of appreciating the position of others, that alone can make 
the critic our companion and friend. We would converse with him, 
secure that he will tell us all his thought, and speak as man to man. 
But if he adapts his work to us, if he stifles what is distinctively 

his, if he shows himself either arrogant or mean, or, above all, if 
35 



274 s. MARGARET FULLER. 

he wants faith in the healthy action of free thought, and the safety 
of pure motive, we will not talk with him, for avc cannot confide in 
him. We will go to the critic who trusts Genius and trusts us, who 
knows that all good writing must he spontaneous, and who will 
write out the bill of fare for the public as he read it for himself, — 

" Forgetting vulgar rules, with spirit free 
To judge each author by his own intent, 
Nor think one standard for all minds is meant." 

Such an one will not disturb us with personalities, with sectarian 
prejudices, or an undue vehemence in favour of petty plans or 
temporary objects. Neither will he disgust us by smooth obse- 
quious flatteries, and an inexpressive, lifeless gentleness. He will 
be free and make free from the mechanical and distorting influences 
we hear complained of on every side. He will teach us to love 
wisely what we before loved well, for he knows the difference be- 
tween censoriousness and discernment, infatuation and reverence ; 
and while delighting in the genial melodies of Pan, can perceive, 
should Apollo bring his lyre into audience, that there may be strains 
more divine than those of his native groves. 



CATHERINE E. BEECHER. 



Miss Beecher's literary history is remarkable, and illustrates one of 
her own favourite maxims in regard to education. Until the age of twenty, 
her reading, so far as left to her own choice, was confined to works of ima- 
gination and humour, she had written nothing but letters and poetry, had 
a decided aversion to the practical duties of domestic life, was so disin- 
clined to metaphysical inquiries, though living in a family where such 
inquiries formed the staple of daily conversation, as never to have given the 
subject any connected attention, and withal was so averse to mathematical 
studies as not even to have learned the multiplication table, or to have 
mastered the simplest arithmetical process. Yet this woman has become 
distinguished as a writer on some of the most abstruse questions of mental 
and moral science, has prepared one of the clearest manuals extant for 
teaching the rationale of . arithmetic, has written most acceptably on 
domestic economy, and she is most favoui'ably known, throughout the length 
and breadth of the land, by the sober and practical character of her views 
as an educator and a philanthropist. 

Miss Beecher is the daughter of the eminent theologian, the Rev. Lyman 
Beecher, D. J). She was born at East Hampton, Long Island, Sept. 6, 
1800. In 1810, the family removed to Litchfield, Connecticut, where 
Catherine was placed at Miss Pierce's school for young ladies, then the 
most celebrated in the country. 

About the age of twenty, according to Mrs. Hale, " an event occurred 
that ended for ever all Miss Beecher's youthful dreams of poetry and 
romance, and changed the whole course of thought and feeling as regarded 
her destiny in life. But the Providence that withdrew her heart from the 
world of woman's hopes, has proved a great blessing to her sex and her 
country." 

In consequence of the event thus delicately alluded to. Miss Beecher 
directed her whole energies to the subject of education. She founded, in 

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276 CATHERINE E. BEECH ER. 

1823, the Hartford Female Seminary, which received pupils from every 
State in the Union, numbering at one time as high an attendance as one 
hundred and sixty. 

In 1832, she accompanied her father to Cincinnati, and established 
there, in 1833, the Western Female Institute. Her more recent efforts 
towards organizing a general plan for popular education, though highly 
important in themselves and honourable to her, do not lie strictly within 
the scope of the present article. 

Miss Beecher's first published work was entitled " Suggestions on Edu- 
cation," a small volume of eighty-four pages, which appeared in 1829. The 
next was the ''Arithmetic" already referred to, which appeared in 1830. It 
was designed to make teachers more thorough in explaining the rationale 
of arithmetical processes, and was quoted with high commendation by 
Prof. Olmstead of Yale College. Her next work was printed in 1831, but 
has never been published. It was an octavo of 452 pages, on the " Ele- 
ments of Mental and Moral Philosophy, as founded on Reason, Experience, 
and the Bible." The extract which is given is from this work. It was 
printed privately for the use of her own pupils, the author always intending 
to rewrite and publish it as the chief literary labour of her life. " Letters 
on Difficulties in Religion," 351 pp., appeared in 1836. It was occasioned 
by the author's meeting in her travels with many sceptical persons of high 
character, with whom she had carried on earnest discussions, both oral and 
written. '' The Moral Instructor," 194 pp., appeared in 1838. It was 
designed as a text-book to teach a complete system of Christian morals to 
young children. She next published a small volume on the slavery ques- 
tion, discussing the duty of American women in reference to this subject. 
"Domestic Economy for Young Ladies," which appeared soon after, has 
had the largest circulation of all of Miss Beecher's works, and the author 
boasts, that, notwithstanding her early distaste for the subject, there is not 
a household or culinary process described in her book with which she is 
not practically familiar. A memoir of her brother, the Rev. George 
]?eecher, 345 pp., appeared in 1844. "Truth Stranger than Fiction," 
294 pp., 1850, was intended to redress an individual wrong, exposing the 
conduct of a young clergyman who had been guilty of a virtual breach of 
promise of marriage. Miss Beecher's last work, " The True Remedy for 
the Wrongs of Woman," 263 pp., 1851, contains a history of her views 
and efforts in regard to female education. 



CATHERINE E. BE EC HER. 277 



HABIT. 

Habit is a facility in performing physical or mental operations, 
gained by the repetition of such acts. As examples of this facility 
gained in 'physical operations, may be mentioned the power of walk- 
ing, which is acquired only by a multitude of experiments ; the 
power of speech, which is a slow process of repeated experiments at 
imitation ; and the poAver of writing, gained in the same way. Suc- 
cess in every pursuit of life is attained by oft-repeated attempts, 
which finally induce a habit. As examples of the formation of 
intellectual habits, may be mentioned the facility which is gained 
in acquiring knowledge, by means of repeated efforts, and the accu- 
racy and speed with which the process of reasoning is performed 
after long practice in this art. As examples of the formation of 
moral habits, may be mentioned those which are formed by the 
exercise of self-government, of justice, veracity, obedience, and 
industry. After the long practice of these virtues they become such 
fixed habits, that it is much more easy and natural to practise them 
than it was before such habits were formed. On the contrary, the 
indulgence of indolence, pride, envy, selfishness, and deceit, forms 
habits of mind which are equally manifest and powerful. 

The happiness of man, in the present state of existence, depends 
not solely upon the circumstances in which he is placed, nor upon 
the capacities with which he is endowed, but almost entirely upon 
th.e formation of his habits. A man might have the organ of sight 
bestowed, and be surrounded with all the beauties of nature, and 
yet if he did not form the habit of judging of the form, distance, 
and size of bodies, all pleasure and all use from this sense would 
be destroyed. The Avorld and all its beauties would be a mere con- 
fused mass of colours. If the habits of walking, and of speech, 
were not acquired, the faculties, and the circumstances for employ- 
ing them, would not furnish the enjoyment they were made to secure. 
It is the formation of intellectual habits by mental discipline and 
study, also, which opens the vast resources for intellectual enjoy- 



■278 CATHERINE E. BE EC HER. 

ment that otherwise would be for ever closed, and it is by practising 
obedience to parents that moral habits of subordination are formed, 
which are indispensable to our happiness as citizens, and as subjects 
of the Divine government. There is no enjoyment which can be 
pointed out, that is not, to a greater or less extent, dependent upon 
the formation of habits, and upon this, all increase of happiness is 
equally dependent. 

The formation of the habits depends upon the leading desire or 
governing purpose, because, whatever the mind desires the most, it 
will act the most to secure, and thus by repeated acts will form its 
habits. The character of every individual depends upon the mode 
of seeking happiness selected by the will. Thus, the ambitious man 
has selected the attainment of power and admiration as his leading 
purpose, and whatever modes of enjoyment interfere with this are 
sacrificed. The man of pleasure seeks his happiness from the various 
gratifications of sense, and sacrifices other modes of enjoyment that 
interfere with this. The man devoted to intellectual pursuits, and 
seeking reputation and influence through this medium, sacrifices 
other modes of enjoyment to secure this gratification. The man 
Avho has devoted his aifections and the service of his life to God and 
the good of his fellow-men, sacrifices all other enjoyments to secure 
that which results from the fulfilment of such obligations. Thus, a 
person is denominated an ambitious man, a man of pleasure, a man 
of literary ambition, or a man of piety, according to the governing 
purpose or leading desire of the mind. There are some minds, 
however, which seem destitute of any leading purpose or charac- 
. teristic ; who seem to be creatures of circumstance, and merely seek 
enjoyment from any object that happens to offer, without any defi- 
nite purpose of life. 

There is one fact in regard to the choice of the leading object of 
desire, or the governing purpose of life, that is very peculiar. Cer- 
tain modes of enjoyment, in consequence of repetition, increase the 
desire, but lessen the capacity of happiness from this source ; while, 
at other sources of enjoyment, gratification increases the desire, and 
at the same time increases the capacity for enjoyment. 



CATHERINE E. BEECHER. 279 

The pleasure of sensitive enjoyments is of the first kind. It will 
be found as a matter of universal experience, that Avhere this has 
been chosen as the main purpose of life, though the desire for such 
enjoyments is continually increased, yet owing to the physical efiects 
of excessive indulgence the capacity for emotions of enjoyment is 
decreased. Thus the man who so degrades his nature as to make 
the pleasures of eating and drinking the great pursuit of life, while 
his desires never abate, finds his zest for such enjoyments continually 
decreasing ; — finds a perpetual need for nevr devices to stimulate 
appetite and awaken the dormant capacities for enjoyment. The 
pleasures of sense always pall from repetition, grow "stale, flat, 
and unprofitable," though the deluded being who has slavishly 
yielded to such appetites, feels himself bound by chains of habit 
which, even when enjoyment ceases, seldom are broken. 

The pleasures derived from the exercise of power, when the 
attainment of this gratification becomes the master passion, are also 
of this description. We find our fellow-creatures toiling and striv- 
ing for the attainment of this good ; the statesman, the politician, 
the conqueror, are all seeking for this, and desire never abates while 
anything of the kind remains to be attained. We do not find that 
enjoyment increases in proportion as power is attained. On the 
contrary, it seems to cloy in possession. Alexander, the conqueror 
of the world, when he had gained all for which he had sought, wept 
that objects of desire were extinct, and that possession could not 
satisfy. Intemperate gratification of this desire always lessens the 
capacity of enjoyment. 

But there are other sources of happiness, which while sought, the 
desire ever continues, and possession only increases the capacity for 
more enjoyment. Of this class is the susceptibility of happiness 
from giving and receiving affection. Here, the more is given and 
received, the more is the power of giving and receiving increased, 
and the more is the susceptibility of gratification refined and 
strengthened. We find that this principle outlives the decay of 
every other, and even the decays of nature itself. When totter- 
ing age on the borders of the grave is just ready to resign its wasted 



2S0 CATHERINE E. BEEC HER. 

tenement, often from its dissolving ashes the never-dying spark of 
affection has burst forth with new and undiminished lustre. This is 
that immortal fountain of happiness always increased by imparting, 
never surcharged by receiving. 

Another principle which is never weakened by exercise, is the 
power of enjoyment from being the cause of happiness to others, 
and to this may be added, as partially involved in it, the happiness 
which results from conscious rectitude. Never was an instance 
known of regret for the pursuit of rectitude, or for devotion to the 
happiness of others. On the contrary, the more these holy and 
delightful principles are in exercise, the more the desires are in- 
creased, and the more are the susceptibilities for enjoyment enlarged. 
While the votaries of pleasure are wearing down with the exhaustion 
of abused nature, and the votaries of ambition are sighing over its 
thorny wreath, the benevolent spirit is exulting in the success of its 
accomplished plans of good, and reaching forth to still purer and 
more accomplished bliss. 

The pleasures which result from sympathy, depend almost entirely 
on the circumstances in which a person is placed, and on the mode 
of happiness he has chosen to secure. If he is surrounded by those 
he is aiding to comfort and bless, their happiness is his, in a measure 
peculiarly delightful. If he is the cause of sorrow, suffering, and 
crime, his power of sympathy is only a cause of suffering. A bene- 
volent mind, even while surrounded by sorrow and suffering, while 
agitated with sympathizing grief, is solaced and cheered with the 
assurance that this painful sympathy is a source of comfort and 
relief to the wounded spirit that for ever seeks this balm. 

The pleasures which result from activity of body and mind, depend 
very much upon the object of pursuit which occupies the mind. If 
the objects pursued are found to be unsatisfactory, and ever mingled 
with sorrow and disappointment, the pleasures of activity are very 
much decreased. If, on the contrary, activity is ever found to 
insure success in attaining good to ourselves and others, enjoyment 
from this source is increased. 

It thus appears that there are two sources of happiness, which, if 



CATHEKINE E. BEECHER. 281 

made the chief objects of life, always increase desire, while they 
lessen the capacity for enjoyment. There are three sources of hap- 
piness which always increase the desire, and also increase the capa- 
city for enjoyment, so long as they are sought, while there are two 
sources of happiness which depend entirely upon the nature of that 
species of enjoyment from which the mind chooses to derive its 
chief happiness. 

But there is another fact in regard to habit, which has an immense 
bearing on the well-being of our race. When a habit of seeking 
happiness in some one particular mode is once formed, the change 
of this habit becomes difficult just in proportion to the degree of 
repetition which has been practised. After a habit is once formed, 
it is no longer an easy matter to choose between that mode of secur- 
ing happiness pursued, and another, which the mind may be led to 
regard as much superior. Thus, after a habit has been formed of 
gratifying the appetite, a man may feel that instead of increasing 
his happiness, it is continually diminishing it, and that, by sacrificing 
it, he may secure much greater enjoyment from another source r 
yet the force of habit is such, that decisions of the will seem per- 
petually to yield to its power. Thus also if a man has found his 
chief enjoyment in that admiration and applause of men so ardently 
desired, even after it has ceased to charm, and seems like emptiness 
and vanity, still when nobler objects of pursuit and happiness are 
offered, the chains of habit bind him to his wonted path, and though 
he looks and longs for the one that his conscience and his intellect 
assure him is brightest and best, the conflict with bad habits 
often ends in fatal defeat and ruin. It is true that every habit can 
be corrected and changed, but nothing requires greater firmness of 
purpose and energy of will. For it is not one resolution of mind 
that can conquer habit, it must be a constant series of long-continued 
eflForts. 

From this it appears that all the happiness of life is dependent 
on the early formation of right habits ; and the revelations of ano- 
ther world give fearful evidence that the happiness of an eternal 
existence is resting on the same foundation. 

36 



282 CATHERINE E. BE EC HER. 

The influence of habit in reference to emotions is very peculiar, 
and deserves special attention, as having a direct influence upon 
character and happiness. All pleasurable emotions of mind, being 
grateful, are indulged and cherished, and arc not weakened by repe- 
tition unless they become excessive. If the pleasures of sense are 
indulged beyond a certain extent, tlie bodily system is exhausted, 
and satiety is the consequence. If tlie love of power and admira- 
tion is indulged and becomes the leading purpose of life, they are 
found to be cloying. But within certain limits all pleasurable emo- 
tions do not seem to lessen in power by repetition. 

But, in regiird to painful emotions, the reverse is true. The 
mind instinctively resists or flies from them, so that after a frequent 
repetition of the same cause, a habit of resisting such emotions is 
formed, until the susceptibility appears almost entirely destroyed. 
The mind seems to be able to turn its attention from painful emo- 
tions, or in some way to suppress them, after continued repetition. 
Thus, a person often exposed to danger ceases to be troubled by 
emotions of fear, because he forms a habit of suppressing them. A 
person frequently in scenes of distress and suftering learns to sup- 
press the emotions of sympathy and pity. The surgeon is an exom- 
ple of the last case, where, by repeated operations, he has learned 
to suppress emotions until they seldom recur, A person inured to 
guilt gradually deadens the pangs of remorse, until, as the Scrip- 
ture expresses it, the conscience becomes " seared as with an hot 
iron." Thus also with the emotion of shame. After a person has 
been repeatedly exposed to contempt, and feels that he is universally 
despised, he grows hardened and callous to any such emotions. 

The mode by which the mind succeeds in forming such a habit, 
seems to be by that implanted principle which makes ideas that are 
most in consonance with the leading desire of the mind become vivid 
and distinct, while those which are less interesting fade away. Now, 
no person desires to witness pain except from the hope of alleviating 
it, unless it be that from anger the mind is sometimes gratified mi\\ 
the infliction of suifering. But in ordinary cases the sight of suf- 
fering is avoided except where relief can be administered. In such 



CATHERINE E. BEECIIER. S83 

cases, tlic desire of admistering relief is the one wliich is the leading 
desire, so that the mind is turned oflf from the vicAV of the siiifering 
to dwell on conceptions of modes of relief; and thus the surgeon 
and physician gradually form such habits that the sight of pain and 
suffering lead the mind to conception of modes of relief, whereas a 
mind not thus interested dwells on the more painful ideas. The 
mind also can form a habit of inattention to our own bodily suffer- 
ings by becoming interested in other things, and thus painful sensa- 
tions go unnoticed. Some persons will go for years with a chronic 
headache, and yet appear to enjoy nearly as much as those who 
never suffer from such a cause. Thus those also who violate con- 
science seem to relieve themselves from suffering by forming a habit 
of dwelling on other themes, and of turning the mind entirely from 
those obligations, which, when contemplated, would upbraid and pain 
them. Thus, too, the sense of shame is lost. A habit is formed of 
leading the mind from whatever pains it, to dwell on more pleasura- 
ble contemplations. 

The habits of life are all formed cither from the desire to secure 
happiness or to avoid pain, and the fear of suffering is found to be 
a much more powerful principle than the desire of happiness. The 
soul flies from pain with all its energies, even when it will be inert 
at the sight of promised joy. As an illustration of this, let a per- 
son be fully convinced that the gift of two new senses would confer 
as great an additional amount of enjoyment as is now secured by 
the eye and ear, and the promise of this future good would not sti- 
mulate with half the energy that would be caused by the threat of 
instant and entire blindness and deafness. 

If, then, the mind is stimulated to form good habits and to avoid 
the formation of evil ones most powerfully by the activity of pain- 
ful emotions, if they are called into exercise, and their legitimate 
object is not effected in producing such good habits or in removing 
bad ones, by the very constitution of mind they must continually 
decrease in vividness, and so the hope of good to one who thus 
resists them must continually diminish. If a man is placed in cir- 
cumstances of danger, and fear leads to the formation of habits of 



284 CATIIEllINE E. BE EC HER. 

caution iiiid carefulness, the object of exciting this emotion is accom- 
plished, and the diminution of the emotion is attended with no evil. 
Hut if (Viir is continually excited and no sucIj habits are formed, 
tlicn the susceptibility is lessened, Avhile the good to be secm-ed by it 
is lost. Thus also -with emotions of sympathy. If we witness pain 
and suffering, and it leads to the formation of habits of active devo- 
tion to the good of those Avho suffer, the diminution of the sucepti- 
bility is a. l)lcssing and no evil. l>ut if wo simply indulge emotion, 
and do not form the habits tliey were intended to secure, the poAver 
of sympathy is weakened, and the benefit to be secured by it is lost. 
Thus again with shame. If this painful emotion docs not lead us to 
form linbits of honour and rectitude, it is continually wealcened by 
repetition, and tlu^ object for which it was bestowed is not seciu'cd. 
And thus also with remorse. If this emotion is awakened without 
leading to the formation of habits of benevolence and virtue, it 
constantly decays in power, and the good it would have secured is 
for ever lost. 
-. It does not appear, however, that the power of emotion in the 
soul, is thus destrotjed. Nothing is done but to form habits of inat- 
tention to painful emotions, by allowing the mind to bo engrossed 
in other and more pleasurable subjects. This appears from the fact 
that tlu' most havdoned culprits, when brought to the hour of death, 
where all plans of future good cease to charm the mental eye, are 
often overwhelmed with the most vivid emotions of sorrow, shame, 
remorse, and fear. And often in the course of life tlierc are seasons 
when the soul returns from its pursuit of deluding visions, to com- 
mune with itself in its own secret chambers. At such seasons, 
sluune, renu)rse, and fear, take up their abode in their long-banished 
dwelling, and ply their scorpion Avhips, till they are obeyed, and the 
course of honour and virtue is resumed ; or till the distracted spirit 
amiin flies abroad for comfort and relief. 

This peculiarity of our mental character leads to the most anxious 
and painful rellections. Does every act of indolence, selfishness, 
pride, envy, and revenge, lead to the formation of one of these 
poAverful fetters, these habits of crime so easily formed and so diffi- 



CATHERINE E. BE EC HER. 285 

cult to break ? Does the resistance of the admonitions of fear, 
shame, and conscience, tend to form another terrible habit which 
removes the most powerful restraints of guilt ? Is every act of 
meekness, self-denial, justice, magnanimity, and obedience necessary, 
not only to immediate rectitude and peace, but necessary as a golden 
link in the bright chain of some habit indispensable to our happiness ? 
Is the soul so constituted that its susceptibilities can never be 
destroyed ? Is there an hour coming when all the illusions of life 
Avill cease, and the soul must return to commune with itself, and 
understand and feel all its iron chains of guilt and miserable cap- 
tivity ? What terrific anticipations for a mind estranged from the 
only foundation of safety and of hope, the ftivour and guidance of 
Him who formed the undying spirit, and who offers, when sought, 
to guide it aright ; but who, when forsaken, can never afford Ilis 
almighty aid ! 



HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 



Harriet Elizabeth Beecher is the daughter of Rev. Lyman Beecher 
D. D., and seems to have inherited much of the splendid talents of her 
father. She was born at Litchfield, Connecticut, June 15, 1812. She 
went to Cincinnati with her father's family in the autumn of 1832. In 
the winter of 1836 she was married to Professor Calvin E. Stowe, of the 
Theological Seminary of that place. In 1850 Professor Stowe accepted a 
professorship in Bowdoin College, Brunswick, Maine, where the family 
resided for one or two years, when he was transferred to a chair in the 
Theological Seminary, at Andover, Massachusetts. 

Mrs. Stowe's writings are found principally in the various literary and 
religious periodicals of the country, and in a volume of tales, called " The 
Mayflower," published in 1843. She has not written so much as some 
of our female authors, but what she has written has left a profound 
impression. She is remarkable for the qualities of force and clearness. 
Few readers can resist the current of her argument, and none can mistake 
her meaning. She possesses also a great fund of wit, and a delicate play 
of fancy not inferior to our most imaginative writers. 



The foregoing paragraphs were published in 1851, the year before the 
appearance of Mrs. Stowe's great work. In revising our article for the 
present edition (1854), we have concluded to let the verdict stand unal- 
tered, merely adding, in the briefest possible manner, such remarks as 
subsequent events seem to call for. 

" Uncle Tom's Cabin" was published in March, 1852. Its success was 
unprecedented in the annals of literature. In less than nine months, the 
sale had exceeded a million of copies ; the author and her publishers had 
made fortunes out of it; more than thirty rival editions of it had been 
published in London alone, besides numerous other editions in different 
parts of Scotland and Ireland ; it was translated into every living language 
that possessed a popular literature; and Harriet Beecher Stowe, before 

(286) 



HARRIET BEEC HER S TO WE. 287 

comparatively unknown even in her own country, became as familiar a 
name in every part of the civilized world, as Homer or Shakespeare. 

It is absurd to attribute such extraordinary success to the abolition 
character of the book. This feature of the work has probably repelled 
quite as many readers as it has attracted. The anti-slavery sentiment, 
obtruded by the author in her own person, is the greatest blemish of the 
book as a work of art. It is an undoubted proof of the extraordinary skill 
of the author in other respects, that she has been able so completely to 
fascinate millions of readers, to whom her anti-slavery opinions have been 
utterly offensive. The whole secret of the matter simply is, Mrs. Stowe is 
a woman of genius, and her book is one of consummate skill. No living 
writer equals her in abilities as a mere story-teller, seizing the reader's 
attention, as she does, on the very first page, and holding it captive, with- 
out any let-up to the very last. Her delineations of character are per- 
fectly life-like. Even those personages that are introduced incidentally 
in a single scene, stand out clear and distinct upon the canvass, like the 
charcoal sketches in the contours of a great master. Of her dramatic 
power — generally considered the highest walk of genius — it is superfluous 
to speak, when hundreds of theatres have been kept thronged for months 
in success'ion, by the exhibition of her story even in the crude form given 
to it by some bungling playwright. Her mastery of pathos is apparently 
unbounded. The springs of emotion are touched at will ; the heart throbs, 
the eyes swim, without a moment's notice, and without any apparent effort 
or preparation on the part of the writer. 

Blackwood, in an article of more than thirty pages, devoted to the exa- 
mination of the literary merits of '* Uncle Tom's Cabin," viewing it solely 
as a work of art, and apart entirely from the social and political questions 
which it suggests, thus sums up its opinion of the author. 

" Mrs. Stowe is unquestionably a woman of genius; and that is a word 
which we always use charily : regarding genius as a thing j:>er se — different 
from talent, in its highest development, altogether, and in kind. Quick- 
ness, shrewdness, energy, intensity, may, and frequently do accompany, 
but do not constitute genius. Its divine spark is the direct and special 
gift of God : we cannot completely analyze it, though we may detect its 
presence, and the nature of many of its attributes, by its action ; and the 
skill of high criticism is requisite, in order to distinguish between the feats 
of genius and the operation of talent. Now, we imagine that no person 
of genius can read Uncle Tom's Cabin, and not feel in glowing contact 
with genius — generally gentle and tender, but capable of rising, with its 
theme, into very high regions of dramatic power. This Mrs. Stowe has 
done several times in the work before us^ — exhibiting a passion, an 
intensity, a subtle delicacy of perception, a melting tenderness, which are 
as far out of the reach of mere talent, however well trained and expe- 
rienced, as the prismatic colours are out of the reach of the born blind. 



288 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

But the genius of Mrs. Stowe is of that kind which instinctively addresses 
itself to the affections; and though most at home with the gentler, it can 
be yet fearlessly familiar with the fiercest passions which can agitate and 
rend the human breast. With the one she can exhibit an exquisite ten- 
derness and sympathy ; watching the other, however, with stern but calm 
scrutiny, and delineating both with a truth and simplicity, in the one case 
touching, in the other really terrihleJ' 

In 1853, ''Uncle Tom" being then in the very acme of his renown, the 
author visited England, and several countries of Europe. The enthusiasm 
of her reception abroad is still too fresh upon the minds of all to need 
repetition. In the British Isles, particularly, it was a regular ovation. 
Since her return, she has prepared and published a book of travels, called 
"Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands," now just from the press. It is in 
two volumes, 12rao., and is having a rapid sale. These volumes are very 
unequal in stylo and execution. Parts of them are devoted to the expo- 
sition of the various religious and philanthropic institutions of G-reat 
Britain. These are of course plain and practial, as they should be. But 
in those parts, as in the visits to Melrose Abbey, to Abbotsford, to Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon, to Warwick Castle, and to various other places and persons 
of historical renown, the imaginative temperament of the author has had 
free play, and she has written in a manner not surpassed by anything in 
" Uncle Tom." One would have supposed it impossible to write with such 
freeness on such hackneyed topics. The incidental remarks, interspersed 
here and there in the midst of her narrative, contain some of the finest 
specimens of aesthetic criticism to be found anywhere. What she says, for 
instance of Shakspeare, and of Gothic architecture, as exhibited in the 
various cathedrals which she visited, is in the very highest style of criti- 
cism. These criticisms, oftentimes profound as they are brilliant, seem to 
gush forth in the simplest and most natural manner, as if from an over- 
flowing fountain, giving an indescribable charm to the parts of her book in 
which they occur. 



THE TEA BOSE. 

There it stood, in its little green vase, on a light ebony stand, 
in the window of the drawing-room. The rich satin curtains, with 
their costly fringes, swept down on either side of it, and around it 
glittered every rare and fanciful trifle which wealth can oiFer to 
luxury, and yet that simple rose was the fairest of them all. So 
pure it looked, its white leaves just touched with that delicious 
creamy tint peculiar to its kind : its cup so full, so perfect ; its 



HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 289 

liead bending as if it were sinking and melting away in its own 
richness — oh ! when did ever man make anything to equal the 
living, perfect flower ! 

Eut the sunlight that streamed through the window revealed 
something fairer than the rose. Reclined on an ottoman, in a 
deep recess, and intently engaged with a book, rested what seemed 
the counterpart of that so lovely flower. That cheek so pale, that 
fair forehead so spiritual, that countenance so full of high thought, 
those long, downcast lashes, and the expression of the beautiful 
mouth, sorrowful, yet subdued and sweet — it seemed like the picture 
of a dream. 

"Florence ! Florence !" echoed a merry and musical voice, in a 
sweet, impatient tone. Turn your head, reader, and you will see 
a light and sparkling maiden, the very model of some little wilful 
elf, born of mischief and motion, with a dancing eye, a foot that 
scarcely seems to touch the carpet, and a smile so multiplied by 
dimples that it seems like a thousand smiles at once. "Come, 
Florence, I say," said the little sprite, "put down that wise, good, 
and excellent volume, and descend from your cloud, and talk with 
a poor little mortal." 

The fair apparition, thus adjured, obeyed ; and, looking up, 
revealed just such eyes as you expected to see beneath such lids — 
eyes deep, pathetic, and rich as a strain of sad music. 

"I say, cousin," said the "light ladye," "I have been thinking 
what you are to do with your pet rose when you go to New York, 
as, to our consternation, you are determined to do ; you know it 
would be a sad pity to leave it with such a scatterbrain as I am. 
I do love flowers, that is a fact ; that is, I like a regular bouquet, 
cut off and tied up, to carry to a party ; but as to all this tending 
and fussing, which is needful to keep them growing, I have no gifts 
in that line." 

"Make yourself easy as to that, Kate," said Florence, with a 
smile ; " I have no intention of calling upon your talents ; I have 
an asylum in view for my favourite." 

" Oh, then you know just what I was going to say. Mrs. Mar- 
shall, I presume, has been speaking to you ; she was here yester- 
37 



290 HARRIET B EEC TIER STO WE. 

day, and I was quite pathetic upon the subject, telling her the loss 
your favourite would sustain, and so forth ; and she said how 
delighted she would be to have it in her green-house, it is in such 
a fine state now, so full of buds. I told her I knew you would 
like to give it to her, you are so fond of Mrs. Marshall, you 
know." 

" Now, Kate, I am sorry, but I have otherwise engaged it." 

" Who can it be to ? you have so few intimates here." 

" Oh, it is only one of my odd fancies." 

"But do tell me, Florence." 

" Well, cousin, you know the pale little girl to whom we give 
sewing." 

" What ! little Mary Stephens ? How absiu-d ! Florence, this 
is just another of your motherly, old-maidish ways — dressing dolls 
for poor children, making bonnets and knitting socks for all the 
dirty little babies in the region round about. I do believe you 
have made more calls in those two vile, ill-smelling alleys back of 
our house, than ever you have in Chestnut street, though you 
know everybody is half dying to see you ; and now, to crown all, 
you must give this choice little bijou to a sempstress-girl, when one 
of your most intimate friends, in your own class, would value it so 
highly. What in the world can people in their circumstances want 
.with flowers?" 

"Just the same as I do," replied Florence, calmly. "Have 
you not noticed that the little girl never comes here without 
looking wistfully at the opening buds ? And, don't you remem- 
ber, the other morning she asked me so prettily if I would let her 
mother come and see it, she was so fond of flowers?" 

"But, Florence, only think of this rare flower standing on a 
table with ham, eggs, cheese, and flour, and stifled in that close 
little room where Mrs. Stephens and her daughter manage to wash, 
iron, cook, and nobody knows what besides." 

" Well, Kate, and if I were obliged to live in one coarse room, 
and wash, and iron, and cook, as you say — if I had to spend every 
moment of my time in toil, with no prospect from my window but 



HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. OQI 

a brick wall and dirty lane, such a flower as this would bo untold 
enjoyment to me." 

"Pshaw! Florence— all sentiment: poor people have no time 
to be sentimental. Besides, I don't believe it will grow with 
them ; it is a greenhouse flower, and used to delicate living." 

" Oh, as to that, a flower never inquires whether its ow^ier is 
rich or poor ; and Mrs. Stephens, whatever else she has not, has 
sunshine of as good quality as this that streams through our win- 
dow. The beautiful things that God makes are his gift to all alike. 
You will see that my fair rose will be as well and cheerful in Mrs. 
Stephens's room as in ours." 

" Well, after all, how odd ! When one gives to poor people, one 
wants to give them something useful— a, bushel of potatoes, a ham, 
and such things." 

"Why, certainly, potatoes and ham must be supplied; but, 
having ministered to the first and most craving wants, why not add 
any other little pleasures or gratifications we may have it in our 
power to bestow ? I know there are many of the poor who have 
fine feeling and a keen sense of the beautiful, which rusts out and 
dies because they are too hard pressed to procure it any gratifica- 
tion. Poor Mrs. Stephens, for example : I know she would enjoy 
birds, and flowers, and music, as much as I do. I have seen her 
eye light up as she looked on these things in our drawing-room, and 
yet not one beautiful thing can she command. From necessity, her 
room, her clothing, all she has, must be coarse and plain. You 
should have seen the almost rapture she and Mary felt when I 
offered them my rose." 

"Dear me! all this may be true, but I never thought of it 
before. I never thought that these hard-working people had any 
ideas of taste!" 

" Then why do you see the geranium or rose so carefully nursed 
in the old cracked teapot in the poorest room, or the morning-glory 
planted in a box and twined about the window. Do not these show 
that the human heart yearns for the beautiful in all ranks of life ? 
You remember, Kate, how our Avasherwoman sat up a Avhole night, 



292 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

after a hard day's work, to make her first baby a pretty dress to 
be baptized in." 

" Yes, and I remember how I laughed at you for making such a 
tasteful little cap for it." 

" Well, Katy, I think the look of perfect delight with which the 
poor mother regarded her baby in its new dress and cap, was some- 
thing quite worth creating ; I do believe she could not have felt 
more grateful if I had sent her a barrel of flour." 

" Well, I never thought before of giving anything to the poor 
but what they really needed, and I have always been willing to do 
that when I could without going far out of my way." 

" Well, cousin, if our heavenly Father gave to us after this mode, 
we should have only coarse, shapeless piles of provisions lying about 
the world, instead of all this beautiful variety of trees, and fruits, 
and flowers." 

" Well, well, cousin, I suppose you are right — but have mercy 
on my poor head ; it is too small to hold so many new ideas all at 
once — so go on your own way." And the little lady began prac- 
tising a waltzing step before the glass with great satisfaction. 



It was a very small room, lighted by only one window. There 
was no carpet on the floor; there was a clean, but coarsely- 
covered bed in one corner; a cupboard, with a few dishes and 
plates, in the other ; a chest of drawers ; and before the window 
stood a small cherry stand, quite new, and, indeed, it was the only 
article in the room that seemed so. 

A pale, sickly-looking woman of about forty was leaning back in 
her rocking-chair, her eyes closed and her lips compressed as if in 
pain. She rocked backward and forward a few minutes, pressed 
her hand hard upon her eyes, and then languidly resumed her fine 
stitching, on which she had been busy since morning. The door 
opened, and a slender little girl of about twelve years of age entered, 
her large blue eyes dilated and radiant with delight as she bore in 
the vase with the rose-tree in it. 



HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 293 

" Oh ! see, mother, see ! Here is one in full bloom, and two 
more half out, and ever so many more pretty buds peeping out of 
the green leaves." 

^he poor woman's face brightened as she looked, first on the 
rose and then on her sickly child, on whose face she had not seen 
so bright a colour for months. 

" God bless her !" she exclaimed, unconsciously. 

" Miss Florence — yes, I knew you would feel so, mother. Does 
it not make your head feel better to see such a beautiful flower ? 
Now you will not look so longingly at the flowers in the mai-ket, 
for we have a rose that is handsomer than any of them. Why, it 
seems to me it is worth as much to us as our whole little garden 
used to be. Only see how many buds there are ! Just count 
them, and only smell the flower ! Now where shall we set it up ?" 
And Mary skipped about, placing her flower first in one position 
and then in another, and walking ofi" to see the effect, till her 
mother gently reminded her that the rose-tree could not preserve 
its beauty Avithout sunlight. 

"Oh yes, truly," said Mary; "well, then, it must stand here 
on our new stand. How glad I am that we have such a handsome 
new stand for it ; it will look so much better." And Mrs. Ste- 
phens laid down her work, and folded a piece of newspaper, on 
which the treasure was duly deposited. 

" There," said Mary, watching the arrangement eagerly, " that 
will do — no, for it does not show both the opening buds ; a little 
farther around — a little more; there, that is right;" and then 
Mary walked around to view the rose in various positions, after 
which she urged her mother to go with her to the outside, and see 
how it looked there. " How kind it was in Miss Florence to think 
of giving this to us !" said Mary; "though she had done so much 
for us, and given us so many things, yet this seems the best of all, 
because it seems as if she thought of us, and knew just how we 
felt; and so few do that, you know, mother." 

What a bright afternoon that little gift made in that little room ! 
How much faster Mary's fingers flew the livelong day as she sat 
sewing by her mother ; and Mrs. Stephens, in the happiness of her 



•201: II A IMl I MT I'. I'l KCIl V] It. S TO W K. 

child, aliiiosl. loi-^ol. lliiit- slu! li;ul :i lic;i(l:u;lu', and tli()ii;j;]il , as slio 
Hipiictl her (>V('iiiii<i; (Mip of tea, llia,t slu; fcdL Htroii^fi- tliaii she had 
(hiiic (or sonic lime. 

'I'hat rose ! its sweet inlluencc died not Avitli tlio first day. 
'rhroiiij;h all (he loii;^ cold Avinter, the watcliing, teiuliug, eherish- 
iiiii; ol' I hat llowcr awakened ;i thousand pleasant trains of thouglit, 
(hat l)eu;iiiled the sameiiess and weariiu'ss of their iifi'. l*]very 
day (lie I'aii', jj;ro\vin_i;" thinji; put forth some IVi'sh hcuuty — a leaT, 
a hud, a new shoot, and constantly awakened I'resh enjoynient in 
its possessors. As it stood in tlie "window, the })asser-hy wouhl 
sometimes sto|) and j^a/e, attracted hy its heauty, ami then proud 
and happy was Mary ; nor did even the serious and careworn 
widow notic(> with indilVerencc^ this trihute to tlm hi'aiity of their 
favourite. 

Hut little did Morenee think, when she bestowed the <!;irt, that 
there twined ahoiit it an invisihle thread that r(>achcd far ami 
bri<2;htly into tlu' wch of her destiny. 

One cold alternoon in early spring-, a tall and <<;vaceful <i;entle- 
nian ealhul at llu^ lowly r(H)m to jiay for the nuiking of sonu> liiu-n 
by lh(> inmates. lie was a stran^H'r and wayi'avcr, recommended 
through th(> t'harity of sonu^ of ]\lrs. Stephens's patrons. As he 
turned to go, his eye rested admlrint^ly on the rose-tree, and he 
stopped to gaze at it. 

" llow beautiful !" said he. 

"• Yes," said little Mary, ''■and it was given to us by a lady as 
Bwoot and beautiful as that is." 

"All!" said the stranger, turning upon her a pair of bright 
dark eyes, ])leased and rather struck by tlio communication; 
" and how came she to giv(^ it to you, my little girl ?" 

"•Oh, because we are poor, and mother is sick, and we never can 
have anything pretty. We used to have a garden once, and we 
IovimI (lowers so much, anil Miss .Klorcncc found it out, and so she 
gave us this." 

" b'loronee!" echoed tlu> stranger. 

''Yes — Miss Klorenee I'Kstrange — a beautll^d lady. Tliey say 



HARRIET BE EC HER ST OWE. 29o 

slic was from foreign parts ; but she speaks Englisli just like other 
ladies, only sweeter." 

"Is she here now? Is she in this city?" said the gentleman, 
eagerly. 

" No ; she left some months ago," said the widow, noticing the 
shade of disappointment on his face; "but," said she, "you can 

find out all about her at her aunt's, Mrs. Carlysle's, No. 10 

street." 

A short time after, Florence received a letter in a handwriting 
that made her tremble. During the many early years of her life 
fjpent in France, she had avcII learned to know that writing — had 
loved as a woman like licr loves only once ; Ijut there had been 
obstacles of parents and friends, long separation, long suspense, 
till, after anxious years, she had believed the ocean had closed 
over that hand and heart; and it was this that had touched with 
such pensive sorrow the lines in her lovely face. 

But this letter told that he was living, — that he had traced her, 
even as a hidden streamlet may bo traced, by the freshness, the 
verdure of heart, which her deeds of kindness had left wherever 
she had passed. 

Thus much said, my readers need no help in finisliing the story 
for themselves. 



SARA II. BROWNE. 



Sara Hall Browne, the subject of this sketch, was born in Sunder- 
land, Massachusetts, during one of those calamitous periods which not 
unfrequently interrupt the prosperity of families, where the husband and 
fiithcr is engaged in the mercantile profession. A series of misfortunes 
and losses had reduced her parents, at the time of her birth, to circum- 
stances of difficulty and embarrassment, which ultimately led to the aban- 
donment of trade for the safer and surer pureuit of agriculture. With 
this design they removed to Hyde Hillside, a pleasant maternal estate in 
the retired town of Templeton, Massachusetts, which has ever since been 
the family residence. 

A very quiet place is the Hillside ; beautiful and picturesque in its 
environments. Sequestered like a nest among the hills, it is a sweet, wild, 
rural abode, every way fitted to be a child's paradise, and the nursery and 
school of that species of genius which feasts on natural beauty and unfolds 
most successfully in solitude. 

Hyde Hillside is, some might afiirm, a very lonely abode, on the southern 
slope of a rocky hill, yet surrounded by scenery of remarkable beauty. On 
the east, the descent is quite abrupt for a few hundred yards to a beauti- 
ful expanse of water, partly lying in the shadow of dark pine woods, and 
again spread oixt in the sunshine, sparkling like a lake of molten diamonds. 
Another hill rises from this watery interval, with a smooth and gradual 
ascent, for a mile or two, on the summit of which stands the pleasant 
village of Templeton, in full view, with its trees, its church spires, and 
its white dwellings. 

Mount Monadnock rises, hoary and cloud-capped, to the north, while 
on the south and west the prospect is bounded by hill and woodland. 

The venerable ancestral mansion is a large commodious dwelling, which 
has ofi'ered the hospitalities of nearly a century to friend and stranger. 

(296) 



SARA II. BROWNE. 297 

In this rural retreat was passed Miss Browne's cLiWhood ; here was she 
instructed by an excellent mother in all those domestic virtues which are 
appropriate to the female character, in all stations and circumstances ; 
here were laid the foundations of every valuable attainment which after 
years may have more fully developed ; here dawned those aspirations, 
which, kindled by the fire of inborn genius, quickened and expanded by 
judicious parental enconrngcmcnt, have borne her ever onward in a career 
certainly not after the ordinary level of common workday life, and which 
promises to give her a still widening sphere of influence and usefulness. 

By the aid of advanced preparation in the home school-room, and the 
practice of rigorous economy — for her pecuniary resources were by no 
means abundant — Miss Browne was able to complete an extensive course 
of study, in one of our best female seminaries, in 1841. For a short time 
subsequently she engaged in teaching, but a severe and protracted bronchial 
affection ultimately prohibited effort in that department of congenial 
labour. 

In 184G occurred her first great sorrow, in the death of a father whose 
moral and intellectual worth and experience were always a safe anchorage 
for the doubts and difficulties of children who ever had occasion to rise up 
and call him blessed, alike for the prudent and judicious policy exercised 
in their mental training and direction, as for those lessons of piety and 
benevolence which he was faithful to instil and to exemplify. 

Within the last few years Miss Browne has devoted herself mainly to 
the literary profession, both as a means of giving scope to her inclina- 
tions and tastes, and of gaining an independent livelihood. Having 
encountered trials and overcome difficulties which would have daunted a 
less courageous heart, she seems particularly prepared to contend in that 
race in which mind measures with mind, and ultimately to put on the 
laurels which belong to the victor. 

Though yet at the very commencement of her literary career, Miss 
Browne has won very unequivocal favour both as a vigorous painter of 
illustrative fiction and a teacher of religious truth. 

Her prose is characterized by a very marked originality, force, and 
point. The moral she invariably inculcates is always apparent in its 
meaning and strong in its application. The characters she delineates are 
clearly individualized, and usually contrasted finely with one another, 
while a tendency to, and keen relish of, the humorous is distinctly per- 
ceptible. She unfolds truthfully and happily the workings of the purest 
and tenderest human sensibilities, yet her style never verges towards senti- 
mentalism, and the entire survey of her published writings would not 
furnish a single sickly feature, or a single example which would lay her 
open to the charge of moral cowardice. Light and shadow, joy and sor- 
38 



298 S A K A II. BROWNE. 

row, tears und laughter, tragedy aud comedy, follow in the wake of her 
versatile pen. 

As a religious writer, no one can mistake the earnest loving warmth of 
the Christian heart. Baptized into the spirit of that piety she commends 
to others, especially to the young, her success in this department of let- 
ters has been truly encouraging. Her "Book for the Eldest Daughter," 
has had and will continue to have a wide circulat"ion ; aud she has received 
from time to time most grateful assurances of its popularity and useful- 
ness. It is indeed a felicitous compound of physical, intellectual, moral, 
and religious instruction, given in a clear, affectionate, attractive style, 
wliicli fulls on the young ear and heart like those sweet '^mother tones" 
which irresistibly constrain to the path of virtue and holiness. 

As a poetess, 3Iiss Browne is not remarkably prolific; she writes deli- 
berately and cautiously, rather than abundantly. She is a poetic sculp- 
tor rather than painter — patient to chisel into perfect harmony and 
proportion, the outline and lineaments of every image whose glowing ideal 
adorns the inner chambers of her imagination. 

A list of Miss Browne's publications is given in the subjoined note. 

For Sartain's Union Magazine, Miss Browne has furnished various articles 
of prose aud poctj'-, viz. : In 1849, a " Salutation to Frcdrika Bremer;" "Wa- 
ters of Marah," (poem) ; in 1850, "The Goblet of llevengc," (poem); "Song of 
the Winter Serenaders," (poem); "Death Bed of Schiller;" in 1851, "The Token 
of Hope," (poem); " Sing to me," (poem). For the Dollar Newspaper, Philadel- 
phia — 18-17, a prose tale, "Reforming a Husband;" in 1848, " Fretting for a 
Secret;" " Prescribed by a Physician ;" in 1849, " Maying in December ;" in 1850, 
" The Iron Grays." For the Boston Rambler and National Library, Boston — 

1847, " Capt. Gage's Cousins ;" " The First Falsehood ;" " The Pauper Bride ;" in 

1848, " Things Old," Nos. I. II. Ill; in 1849, "Mary Stuart's last Pageant," (poem); 
" The Two Homes ;" " The Snow Buried," (poem). For the American Cabinet 
and Athciicum — 1848, " One Among a Thousand ;" " John Quiucy Adams," 
(poem) ; in 1849, " Mendelssohn's last Composition," (poem) ; " The First Crime," 
(poem); in 1850, "Mode and Tense." For the Lady's Book several poems: 1845, 
" Last of tlie Asmonians," (poem); in 1843, " The Unknown Flower," (poem); in 1847, 
"Madame Roland," (poem) ; "The Wife's Dowry," (poem); in 1845, " The Costliest 
Gift," (poenr. Besides a great many other fugitive articles of both prose and 
poetry for various magazines, papers, and annuals. In 1847, her first volume 
was published, entitled "My Farly Friends ;" 1849, " Book for the Eldest Daugh- 
ter," a work of between two and three hundred pages ; 1850, " Recollections of 
my Sabbath School Teachers," besides others now in press, and a volume of poems 
in course of preparation. 



SARA II. BROWNE. 299 



A SALUTATION TO FREDRIKA BREMER. 

When America bids you welcome, sweet Lady of the Norseland, 
it is not as a stranger. With the lineaments of your countenance, 
to be sure, she cannot assert familiarity, but then how small a por- 
tion of one's individuality is the face ! Useful indeed it is to its 
possessor, and pleasant to look upon as the medium of noble, or 
gentle, or playful emotions ; but ah ! how much may be learned of 
a human being with no knowledge of the physical outline ! The 
soul can speak with a voice so clear and far-resounding that 
" nations, and tongues, and people," catch the strain and echo it 
from heart to heart till the speaker is lost in what she has spoken ! 
Thus is it. Lady of the Norseland, between you and America, 
when she takes you by the hand to greet your first footstep on the 
soil. 

The great, the rich, the titled sometimes come from the Father- 
land to vicAV our cities, our forests, our lakes, our foaming cataracts, 
our lofty mountains, our interminable caverns. The splendour of 
their retinue and appointments dazzles the eye as they dash from 
object to object. They stare at this, wonder at that, dance a few 
measures at somebody's fancy ball, dine with a bevy of our million- 
aires, shake hands with their wives and daughters, and are off in 
the next steamer to write a book of travels ! And it is well thought 
of, this book of travels ; for it reminds the American reader of Avhat 
he had otherwise speedily forgotten, viz., that the author has actu- 
ally been and gone ! Few heard of him before he came — few saw 
him — few cared to recollect him when he had taken leave, and, save 
a smile or two awakened by the book of travels, he is altogether 
as though he were not. Such travellers must ever be strangers — 
when they come, and while they tarry, and when they depart. No 
bosom swells joyfully at the mention of their names, if indeed they 
are mentioned out of the small circle which has been in personal 
contact. They have done nothing, said nothing, attempted nothing 
which deserves daguerreotyping in a nation's memory, how lefty 



300 SARA H. BROWNE. 

soever their station, liow noble their descent ; and they must bo 
content with the tribute of forgetfuhicss ! 

But when Frcdrika Bremer declares her resolution to cross 
the world of waves which roll between us and the Norseland, and 
the papers, circulating in the huts and hamlets all over our broad 
land, echo that intention, an emotion of a different kind is stirred, 
and thousands of glad young voices from the cabin as well as from 
the villa, exclaim, "Welcome to her !" There is no need to explain 
who she is, or whence she comes — there is not a hamlet in all the 
land where the question could not be intelligently answered, accom- 
panied with a hearty " God bless her !" 

What has made the difference between them ? between these 
scores of gay, and proud, and rich, and great, who move among us 
like meteors from time to time, and this one woman, whose soft and 
steady starlight has reached us long before the path of her orbit 
had brought her hitherward, to shine brighter and brighter unto 
the perfect day ? 

He has made it. Lady of the Norseland, who anointed you high 
priestess of the affections in their truest and purest exercise ! He, 
who inspired your pen to consecrate and sanctify the Home ! He, 
who constrained you to pour out from its full fountain such rills and 
rivers of Love and Concord, of Peace and Hope, and every element 
of the better life ! 

Then come among us, and be sure of a benediction. Come to 
our cots as well as to our palaces — to our wild woods as well as to 
our gardens — to our hearts as well as to our hearths, aad you shall 
find that we too have our "Homes," our "Brothers and Sisters," 
our "Neighbours," our Lares and Penates, with their shrines and 
vestals, our loves and lovers, our jealousies and fears, as well as all 
gentler and lovelier emotions. Come and see. 

From the class which the writer of these lines would represent, a 
welcome especially sincere and warm Avill everywhere await you. 
Homes like hers you have entered again and again with a soft and 
soothing tread — communicating a peace and joy, a contentedness 
with life and labour and care — a knowleds-e that others have borne 



SARA H. BROWNE. 301 

Oar burdens of grief and disappointment, have wept our tears and 
endured our agonies, have cherished our hopes and aimed at our 
mark ; impressing too a conviction that others will yet find strength 
and courage, faith and fruition, from balmy words welling up from 
a loving heart, and dropping like diamonds from sweet sympathizing 
lips ! Lone dwellers with nature are we — afar from tower and 
town, from noise and bustle and business ; with forest and lake, 
hill and village for our wild landscape, with needle and books, 
music and flowers for society, through the long winter without a 
" Midnight Sun." Lights that have burned around the hearthstone 
have been here and there put out. A silvery head has lately gone 
from its " old arm-chair" to heaven. Alas ! alas ! in what Home 
will you not find one ever vacant chair ? Hedvig too has gone, to 
make a heaven in a newly consecrated household ; and sometimes we, 
the small remnant, repine for a little while, but anon, we are cheered, 
for we look joyfully onward and aloft, awaiting a sure reunion day ; 
and sweet words, which your dear pen has traced, teach us lessons 
of Life, of inner, deeper, spiritual Life, whose peace and repose, 
like a broad still river, sweeps along until it is lost in the ocean 
depths of Eternity and God ! 

Yes, you have made blessed such homes as ours. Come to them, 
and make them lighter and lovelier, by starting an echo of your own 
human voice, and a reflection of your own human smile, and we 
will love you better — and for ever ! 



MAUIA J. B. BROWNE 



Maria Jane Bancroft Browne is a native of the beautiful town of 
Northampton, Mass. In her early childhood, however, her parents 
removed from that place to the retired inland town of Templeton, Mass., 
which has since been her home. 

Miss Browne's parents belonged to that judicious class, who, while their 
pecuniary means were restricted, considered the acquisition of a liberal 
education by their children of vastly more value than the inheritance of 
that wealth which so proverbially spreads its pinions and flies away, or, 
what is worse, enchains the energies to frivolity and indolence. To faci- 
litate so desirable an object, these excellent parents did what they could. 
They had already transmitted to their daughters their own characteristics 
of energy, resolution, and perseverance, and having removed obstacles out 
of the way, they left those qualities, under the sunshine of encouraging 
words and smiles, to their own irrepressible expansiveness and eventual 
success. Thrown thus mainly on their own resources. Miss Browne and 
her two elder sisters succeeded in completing an extensive course of study, 
and were graduated with distinction at the Mount Holyoke Seminary in 
1841. Since that time Miss Browne has devoted herself principally to 
the instruction and training of young ladies in the various departments of 
moral, intellectual, and physical culture j a profession for which, by the 
structure of her own mind, and the nature of her acquirements, she is 
very happily adapted. 

Her tastes, however, — the bent of those tastes having unfolded itself in 
very early life, — incline her to the pursuit of letters. Endowed with a 
vigorous and varied imagination, gifted with clear, quick, and discriminating 
perceptions, which penetrate beneath the surface of things for principles and 
conclusions ; with eye, and ear, and heart, alive to all that is lovely and 
truthful in nature, art, and the peculiar province of intellect — possessing 
a wide humanity which earnestly labours for, and expects moral renovation 

(302) 



MARIA J. B. BROWNE. 303 

to follow the wheels of progress ; possessing also the courage and the skill 
to hold the mirror before the face of folly, and to paint the silly linea- 
ments of its deformity ; we scarcely need wonder at the tendency of her 
mind to this species of labour, in a "field which is the world." 

Miss Browne's literary career is however, comparatively, but just begun. 
The efforts of her pen have been very favourably received by the public, 
and these tones of kindness and welcome from the popular voice, encou- 
rage the hope that hers has not been an adventurous launch amidst the 
shoals and breakers of authorship. 

Miss Browne's style of writing contains many popular elements as well 
as intrinsic beauties. In portraying the incidents of actual life, in depict- 
ing scenes of familiar occurrence in the family or the neighbourhood, she 
has few equals, and no superiors. That sterling common sense which 
strips off the mask of frivolity and conventionalism, which falls with 
withering and mortifying weight upon false pretensions, which holds up 
. to derision and contempt those hollow and heartless principles and prac- 
tices, which obtain in so-called "fashionable" society, lends a peculiar 
charm of satisfaction to the perusal of her tales. Of these qualities her 
" Town and Country," " Marrying for the Parish," and " Looking up in 
the World," furnish eminent examples. No one can rise from the perusal 
of these excellent life-pictures, having fairly imbibed their spirit and 
meaning, without a thrill of gratification at the well-ordered finale, and 
its admirable point and truthfulness. 

She is playful, pathetic, serious, eai'nest, full of life and intensity, never 
prosaic, never tedious, never common-place, deeply imbued with the reli- 
gious, largely read in that school of sensibility which enables her to 
sympathize with all forms of human sorrow and suffering; her writings, 
consequently, find their way directly to the heart and bosom of the reader. 
In argument, she is clear, persuasive, and convincing; in satire, keen, and 
cutting, and a remarkable coherency and unity runs through the whole, 
so as to make it a difficult thing to isolate a passage in any given article, 
on which something antecedent or subsequent does not materially depend ; 
every passage is linked with its neighbour so necessarily and appropriately, 
that an extractor finds his task a perplexing one. Harmony and felicity 
of diction is another invariable attribute of Miss Browne's style of compo- 
sition. Her command of language is so affluent, that it sometimes insen- 
sibly leads her into a redundancy of epithet tending toward the superlative; 
but the finished elegance of her periods compensates amply for this defect, 
which time and experience will eradicate. 

In Miss Browne's religious writings appears an element of depth and 
fervour which has made them decided favourites with the serious and devout. 
Her little volumes for the young are replete with pathos, tenderness, and 
truthfulness, conveying lessons of piety and virtue in a manner peculiarly 



304 MARIA J. B. BROWNE. 

calculated to impress the heart and conscience. In all there is something 
so obviously instructive, so high-toned a morality, so transparent a purity, 
so heartfelt a Christianity, which never once condescends to utter a low 
thought, an equivocal idea, or an objectionable word, that they are emi- 
nently proper to place in the hands of children and youth by the most 
careful parent, which is, perhaps, the truest compliment which can be paid 
to a popular writer. 

Miss Browne lias furnished for Sartain's Union Magazine, to -whicli she 
is an engaged contributor, the following articles: April, 1849 — "Marrying for 
the Parish;" October and November, 1849 — "The Ace of Hearts," Parts I. and 
11.; November, 1850— " Looking Up in the World;" July, 1851— "The Rabbit 
on the Wall." For Graham's Magazine, Philadelphia: February, 1849 — "Les- 
sons in German;" September, 1849 — "Jessie Lincoln, or The City Visiters." 
For the Dollar Magazine, New York: November, 1849 — "Going into Winter 
Quarters ;" February, 1850 — " Condescending to Marry." For the Ladies' Maga- 
zine, Boston : November, 1846 — " Precept and Example;" February, March, and 
April, 1847— "Choosing how to Die," Parts I., 11., III., IV. ; October, 1847— "Not 
Wealth, but Worth ;" November, 1847 — " The Disappointed Husband ;" March, 
April, May, June, 1848—" Self-Conquest ;" February, 1849—" En Dishabille, a 
Story for Young Wives." For the Dollar Newspaper, Philadelphia: July, 1848 — 
"Town and Country;" August, 1849 — "Reversed Decision;" November, 1849 — 
"Thanksgiving Carols;" February, 1850 — "The One-Horned Dilemma." For 
the New York Organ : March, 1850—" The Misadventure ;" July, 1850—" The 
Bachelor's Criticisms;" July, 1851 — "The Promise and the Pledge." 

Several other fugitive sketches have appeared, from Miss Browne's pen, through 
various channels : " The Fatal Jest," " The Bride of the Buccaneer," " Elizabeth 
Falconer," "Love and Policy," &c. The religious press has also brought out a 
variety of articles from the same source, and three small volumes for the young: 
1848— " Margaret McDonald, or The True Sister;" 1849— "Story of a Western 
Sabbath School;" 1850— " Laura Huntley ;" 1850— " The Youth's Sketch Book" 
(of which Miss Browne and her sisters are joint authoresses). The "Snow 
Flake," an annual for 1851, has also an article entitled " The Contrast," of 18 
pages. 



LOOKINa UP IN THE WOKLD. 

Something must be done to escape from the inevitable disgrace 
and odium of labouring at such a disgraceful and odious business as 
shoemaking. James Skates should not be a shoemaker any longer, 
nor Katy a shoemaker's wife ! "0 yes, to be sure, something must 
be done," said Cousin Sophronia, "it was a shame they were not 
getting above their neighbours, and looking up in the world, when 
Katy had natural abilities to make so much of an appearance, and 
cut such a dash in the city. Mr. Skates must be persuaded ; and she 



MARIA J. B. BROWNE. 305 

guessed between them, tliej could manage it, as lie was not the 
readiest with arguments or decision, in matters where the odds of 
logic were so decidedly on the other side. Yes, Skates must be 
brushed up, and persuaded to go to the city with his family, board 
them at a hotel or boarding-house, and then engage himself in some 
employment which would furnish spending money — money was to 
be made so easy in the city. And then it would be so much more 
respectable than to burrow in the country, where one never was 
heard of, and slwemake for a living ! She herself would introduce 
them into the ' first society,' and bestow favours of that important 
kind upon them in such profusion, a lifetime would not be long 
enough to cancel the debt of gratitude they would owe her !" 

Katy and Sophronia " cut and dried" the whole affair, while 
Sophronia sat in the rocking-chair with her mits on, and fanned her- 
self; and Katy ran about as if she had been put upon an extra pair 
of springs in every limb, to wait upon her. When it was all ready 
and propped up on all sides with invincible arguments, Mr. Skates 
was cautiously and warily "towed in," to become the lion in the 
scheme ; while Sophronia and her cousin worked vigorously at the 
long arm, till all obstacles were finally thrust out of the way. 
Indeed, such had been the silent effect of Sophronia's " continual 
dropping" about gentility and respectability, even upon a mind so 
slowly perceptive, and so absolutely common-place as Mr. Skates's, 
that the difficulty of gaining him over to their side, was far less formi- 
dable than the ambitious cousins had anticipated. To the unconcealed 
surprise and consternation of all his neighbours and friends, and in 
the very face of remonstrance, and forebodings of ruin, Mr. Skates did 
let his house and shop, and consent to emigrate upon uncertainties, 
to the great city — the great city, which stood out in alto relievo 
before the vision of his wife, like the veritable Paradise. To his 
praise, however, be it spoken, it was not without many inward mis- 
givings, and hours of almost tearful reluctance, that he started upon 
such a wildgoose chase ; and if his wife, who was the polestar of his 
being, though now dangerously out of her true position, had not 
been on the wing, fluttering up almost out of his sight in the track 

of her foolish ambition, the peaceful scenes that had always encir- 
39 



306 MARIA J. B. I5110WNE. 

cled him, and bounded liis desires, and the ahnost irresistible 
attractions of his pleasant labour, would have won him back from 
his illusion, and left him a quiet, useful, and valuable citizen. 

These arrangements were very suddenly got up, and of course 
must be executed while at a fever heat, or they would be likely to 
fail, as Mr. Skates, though his neighbours had never called him 
" shifty-minded" before, might possibly sicken of the prospective 
change, and overturn the whole just on the very eve of accomplish- 
ment. When Katy was so near the enchanted circle, it Avould be 
death to be obliged to withdraw. Sophronia considerately pro- 
tracted her stay a week longer than she had at first meditated, to 
mind the children, and do some "light chores," to facilitate the 
preparations which Mr. and Mrs. Skates were so busy and so 
animated in making. And when the "things" were nearly all 
removed from their places, and packed away into the chambers, 
and all the rooms began to look stripped and melancholy, and there 
began to be gloomy and ill-omened echoes shooting through the 
unfurnished apartments — echoes that would croak of desolation, 
and would sometimes strike like a knell on James's simple heart in 
spite of himself — in spite of the bustling and gleefulness of his 
triumphant little wife — in spite of the glare of Cousin Sophronia's 
fancy paintings, which she took care to hold up before him to the 
very last moment of her tarrying, — when matters were in such a 
train, and she had given the unsophisticated aspirants all necessary 
directions, — quite a catalogue, by the way, — Cousin Sophronia 
took her departure, and in a few days Mr. and Mrs. Skates were 
ready to follow. 

Mrs. Skates was happy as a queen when they were all seated in 
the cars going to the city — the city at last ! — and when the coach 
drew up before the splendid entrance of a great castle-like hotel, 
and the servants came out and overwhelmed them with attentions 
and services, and conducted them in as if they were indeed the Hon. 
Captain Somebody and lady, she was quite bewildered with excite- 
ment and triumph. "Let my neighbours sneer now if they will," 
thought Katy, as she tossed her vain little head, and sat down 
with a mixture of confusion, diffidence, and complacency, in the 



MARIA J. B. BROWNE. 307 

long, brilliantly illuminated, and magnificent drawing-room. Oh, 
such a gorgeous carpet, her feet fairly sunk in its plushy softness, 
as if she had been treading on a bed of fresh moss ! Such luxurious 
furniture ! — such dazzling lamps and mirrors ! While her bewil- 
dered vision was struggling to take in all this grandeur at one 
grasp, another sense carried in a throb of bitter mortification to her 
heart. 

"Name, sir ?" said a servant to her husband, Avho was standing 
still with mouth and eyes wide open, looking about him in amaze- 
ment, trying to collect himself, and to decide whether he was in 
the body or out of the body, so like an unreal panorama seemed all 
that was around him to his simplicity. "Name, sir?" politely 
repeated the servant, his face looking the personation of a subdued 
chuckle. 

" Oh, Squire James and Miss Skates !" replied Mr. Skates very 
audibly ; and then, on second thought, as if something of the most 
absolute importance had been forgotten, he added, " and the child- 
ren, too, — put them in." 

The servant retreated instantly, and saved himself a hemorrhage, 
perhaps, by indulging his overcharged mirthfulness, and recorded 

on the book of arrivals for the morning paper, " James, Esq., 

and Miss Skates." 

Now Mr. Skates had been instructed — specifically instructed — 
to say, when his name was called for at the hotel, "James Skates, 
Esq., lady and children," but his mind and memory were topsy- 
turvy with this dashing so suddenly into gentility, and no wonder 
he could not concentrate his ideas to a proper focus. Mrs. Skates 
felt badly about it, for she feared the whole city would be misled 
when they came to read it, and she thought best to have the mistake 
corrected ; but she would consult Cousin Sophronia. By the time 
she had an opportunity to consult her oracle, however, the unfor- 
tunate edition of the paper had gone by, and everybody in the world 
but themselves had forgotten the announcement, if, indeed, they 
ever noticed it. 

It was already evening when Mr. and Mrs. Skates arrived ; 
Katy was very much excited, and cruelly exhausted — her cheeks 



C08 MAHIA J. B. BROWNE. 

burned like a fever, an<l her arras trembled with fatigue, as she 
tossed the baby hither and tliither to ({uiet liiai, and alternately 
soothed and scolded poor little terrified James. Mr. Skates indi- 
cated, as soon as he could collect his recreant faculties, that they 
would like to engage board "for a spell, and see if they liked;" 
and the landlord, Avhose keen eye Avas so familiarly educated to the 
mensuration of pretensions, and who could detect at a glance the 
spurious from the genuine coin, after some demurring and some 
adroitly directed regrets that liis house was so crowded he should 
not Ijo able to accommodate the gentleman for a few days as Avell 
as he could desire, to all of which Mr. Skates obligingly replied " it 
was just as wal," ho ordered a servant to conduct Mr. and Mrs. 
Skates to No. 150 ! 

Oh what a journey it was, superadded to the day's Aveariness, to 
reach No. 150, and through Avhat a labyrinth of endless halls, 
walled up on both sides by rows of green window-blind-looking 
doors ! and up, up, up what flights and flights of stairs, and round 
what numbers of corners ! Katy felt as if she should drop down, 
and Mr. Skates, whose good temper outlasted everything, jocosely 
remarked to his baggage-laden conductor, " Wal, sir, if it's much 
further, we'll stop in somewhere and rest. I hope when you 
get us up here you'll be sure to come and show us the way out 
again !" 

Poor Katy Avas sick enough by the time she reached her room ; 
and as she entered it, her thoughts Avould revert to her OAvn bed- 
chamber at the cottage home — vastly larger than this little hot " six 
by eight" enclosure — so pleasantly and commodiously furnished, 
and commanding a vicAv of such a green and flowing landscape from 
its windows ; here she could see from the one window, she kncAV 
not Avhat it was, some great dark object, Avhich gradually developed 
into the brick Avail of a neighbouring building, and that bounded 
the prospect. But she was too ill to care much that night, — her 
head ached violently, and spun round witli dizziness, and all she 
could do Avas just to go to bed, SAveltering and fainting, and leave 
the charge of unrobing and quieting the children to her husband. 
Mr. Skates thought the undertaking too hopeless to get down stairs 



MARIA J. B. BROWNE. :}Q9 

and up again alone, so ho went witliout liis supper, and bathed 
Katy's burning forehead, and -whistled and hummed the ohl home 
lullabys to the chiklren, till all were uneasily slumbering, and then, 
as the noise in the streets died away, all but the occasional rattle 
of a vehicle on the pavement, or the echoing tramp of a solitary 
foot -fall breaking in on the midnight hush of the city, and the 
lamps one by one flickered and expired, Mr. Skates too, his mind 
in a whirl, and his purposes and expectations all misty and intan- 
gible, composed himself into a restless and half-watchful repose. 
Even that was broken ever and anon, by a sudden scream from one 
or both of the children, whose sleep itself was fritted away by the 
stifling heat of the small, close room, and the excitement and fatigue 
their own little frames were suffering. 

But they all rose quite as vigorous as could reasonably be anti- 
cipated, and novelty supplied abundantly the stimulus that other- 
wise would have been lacking. Mrs. Skates was somewhat faint, 
and felt some disagreeable visitings of nausea now and then, but 
she managed with her hus])and's good offices, in matters pertaining 
to the toilet, to get herself and the children all ready in full dress 
for breakfast, some minutes before it was armounced. When the 
terrific notes of the gong — it had a giant voice — were heard peal- 
ing and groaning and moaning and growling and howling through 
the long empty halls, affrighting the very echoes, such a chorus of 
unaffected terror as issued from the throats of tlie two young 
Skateses was appalling ! Mr. and Mrs. Skates, too, were startled 
and alarmed, and thought at first that all the wild beasts in the 
world were in desperate battle just outside of their own door, and 
the children shrieked as if every sense were but an inlet to the most 
excruciating torture. In vain did papa and mamma hush and hug 
and soothe and threaten after the cause of the alarm was ascertained ; 
every measure weighed light as a feather in the balance with the 
fright and horror they experienced at the sudden acquaintanceship 
of this unearthly noise. The poor children refused to be comforted 
till it was too late for the regular breakfast, so Mr. Skates, lady 
and children, breakfasted alone. 

Cousin Sophronia was good enough to come quite early, and 



310 MARIA J. B. BR AVNE. 

spend all the morning with Mrs. Skates, congratulating her on hav- 
ing emerged from a living burial in the country, welcoming her to 
the unutterable delights of a city life, and giving her lessons in 
gentility, while Mr, Skates went out into the street to look up some 
kind of "genteel business;" for he was made distinctly to under- 
stand, that none other would answer his purpose, though his simple 
ideas were at the lowest possible ends concerning the boundary 
lines between a genteel and an ungenteel occupation. But Sophro- 
nia assured him that such as he was in pursuit of was " plenty as 
quails," and he supposed it must be of course, if he had only been 
sufficiently acquainted in the city to know where to look for it. 
Everywhere he inquired he was informed by the industrious 
and laborious business men, that "they did not keep the article,'' 
and lie came to his hotel from his unsuccessful tour quite discou- 
raged and disheartened. But he was soon called to forget his ill 
success in obtaining employment, by the necessity of preparation 
for dinner. Cousin Sophronia had apprised Mrs. Skates that 
" folks did not dress much for breakfast, but dinner at hotels and 
fashionable bordin' houses" was a great aifair, and conducted with a 
marvellous display of state and ceremony — that they must be 
dressed in their very best and gayest clothes, and be on the alert 
to "see just how other folks did." or coming from the country so 
fresh, they would be liable to some gross violations of dinner-table 
etiquette, and the "folks would think so strange of it." 

Katy felt less apprehension for her own ability to manage than 
she did for her husband and children. Mr. Skates was mortally 
awkward, there was no disputing, and the children would be most 
likely to do as children always will — behave worst when they are 
put upon their host behaviour — cry when it is indispensable they 
should be quiet, — seize upon things they should let alone, and 
sometimes, by the simplest prattle, uncover family secrets it takes 
the practised ingenuity of parents to conceal — the plain-spoken 
little wretches ! 

Mr. Skates was sent to the barber to get himself shaved after 
the most approved fashion, and then he was trimmed out in his new 
suit of blue broadcloth, Avith his fancy silk vest and his new blue 



MARIA J. B. BROWNE. 311 

and -white plaid neckerchief, and his white linen handkerchief 
shaken out of its neat folds, and stuffed with fashionable careless- 
ness into his coat joocket, hj Sophronia's own competent hands. 
Indeed, he looked very much dressed up, and you would hardly 
have suspected his occupation but for the peculiar stoop in the 
shoulders craftsmen of his calling are apt to acquire, and for cer- 
tain dark-coloured and very incorrigible labour-lines and calluses 
on his hands, which perseveringly resisted all the influence of soap 
and sand which could be brought to bear upon them. Honourable 
labour-lines and calluses they were, too ; he was in no danger of 
losing the good opinion and respect of any whose respect and good 
opinion were worth preserving, for these ; he might be, for suffer- 
ing himself to be persuaded to blush for them, to be coaxed, and 
not very reluctantly, into his present apish and incongruous 
transition ! 

Katy Skates robed herself in her new changeable silk, flounced 
and resetted in the skirt, and decorated about the low neck and 
short sleeves in the very latest style. Her hair shone and waved 
and curled deliciously, her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks glowed 
like roses ; and if she had been going to figure at a magnificent 
entertainment on some great and special occasion, by invitation from 
an affluent host, she would have looked not only suitably but beau- 
tifully habited ; for Mrs. Skates was really handsomer in person 
than many renowned beauties who make considerable sensation in 
the world. Moreover, to set off her charms still more effectually, 
Cousin Sophronia — obliging soul ! — had been so good as to loan 
Mrs. Skates a very gay bracelet and brooch, with great glaring, 
hot-looking purple stones in them, and a chain from which dangled 
a gold pencil. And when these were all fixed on in their places, 
and Katy looked in the mirror to see herself, she was sensible of a 
glow of real admiration, and her little vain heart swelled with pride 
and satisfaction. I am sorry her pride and satisfaction had no 
nobler groundwork to base themselves upon ! 

Mr. Skates, I need not say, admired her too, and could hardly 
forbear kissing her, as if he were a lover, or she a bride. 

The horrible notes of the gong were at length heard grumbling 



312 MARIA J. B. BROWNE. 

along through the halls. This time the children only turned pale, 
and clung closer to their parents, with their eyes stretched open, 
staring wonderingly. Mr. Skates carried the baby, and Mrs. 
Skates led James and hung on her husband's arm, till, with a crowd 
that kept swelling all the way from "No. 150" down, they found 
themselves floating into the spacious dining-hall of the hotel ; and 
somehow, they hardly realized how, they were seated at the table. 
Everything was new and strange. Mr. Skates innocently stared 
at the services and ceremonies he could not understand, and Mrs. 
Skates increased and made manifest her confusion, by trying to 
appear at ease, and accustomed to it all. The "great towel" laid 
by his plate Mr. Skates had no use for, with a good white hand- 
kerchief in his pocket, so he " doubled it up," and put it behind 
him, to keep it out of little James's hands. 

That hopeful young "scion" opened the table scene by being 
vastly troublesome. He refused to be seated on his father's knee, 
and clamoured bravely for his "high chair." Mr. Skates's argu- 
ments for some time were of no avail, but at length he succeeded 
in persuading his small but resolute antagonist that " they did not 
have high chairs here in the city," and he must either be good, or 
be sent to No. 150 to stay alone. James surrendered ; but as soon 
as he was fairly settled in his, place, and had looked a long inquisi- 
tive stare into the faces of the company on the opposite side of the 
table, he seized a silver fork that lay by his father's plate, and 
began raking it over his cheeks and his protruded tongue. 

" What's this, pa ? what's this thing ?" he inquired, holding it 
still more fast, while his father attempted to take it out of his 
determined grasp. 

" You mustn't meddle with it — let it alone, James. It looks 
some like a spoon !" replied Mr. Skates, forcing it away from the 
little hand, and laying it down on the cloth. But James, with the 
children's universal license to misbehave on the most important 
occasions, instantly took it up again, and began ringing the elegant 
champagne glass which a servant that moment presented to a gen- 
tleman who sat next. 



MARIA J. B. BRO^YNE. 313 

"We han't got no such 'poons to home, have A\e, pa ?" interro- 
gated the youngster. 

" Ah, James !" interrupted Mrs. Skates, who had had more than 
she could do thus far to keep her borrowed finery out of the hands 
and mouth of the astonished baby, " Ah, James ; what did I tell 
you?" 

"You said you should trounce me if I wasn't still," confessed 
the child, rapping his head with the fork, and making it do the 
service of a comb in frizzling up his nicely-smoothed hair. But 
the memory of the threat silenced him for a few minutes, while a 
fiery-red blush of three-fold mortification, suffused the before glow- 
ing cheeks of his exasperated mamma — mortification that her son 
had exposed his ignorance of the purposes for which silver forks 
are used — that he should disclose so publicly, and without remorse, 
the unfortunate and disgraceful fact that he was a stranger to such 
luxuries at home, and lastly, that he should be so explicit in his 
delineation of her peculiar mode of family discipline ! 

But Mrs. Skates's cheeks tingled worse and worse, and her fore- 
head burned hotter and hotter, when she heard her unsophisticated 
spouse remark to a waiter who handed him a well-filled plate, 

" Thank'ee, thank'ee, sir, but you've loaded 'most too heavy of 
that; I can't eat all this and taste of all them other sorts, too. I 
see you've got lots back there yet !" Mrs. Skates set her satin 
slipper hard down on Mr. Skates's boot, under the table, telegraph- 
ing that he was guilty of something, he hardly knew what ; but it 
made him silent, and left her to blush and flutter at the impertinent 
smile she saw running from lip to lip on the other side of the table, 
— a cruel but very common way of exposing the real vulgarity and 
grossness of mind which would pass itself for high breeding, and a 
contempt for what, by a kind of false comparison, appears unrefined 
or uncultivated in the manners of others. 

Little James by this time had recovered from the shock he had 

experienced from the recollection of what Avas in store for him, if 

he " wasn't still," and he found his curiosity was by no means 

satisfied, concerning the new things that were about him. He pro- 

40 



314 MARIA J. B. BROWNE. 

cceded with his investigation by seizing a "bill of fare/' which the 
nearest neighbour had just laid down. 

"What's this, pa?" he inquired, bringing the smooth, clean 
paper into contact with his greasy mouth. It was a fixed habit of 
Master James's this, of introducing everything to the acquaint- 
anceship of his facial orifice, whether said orifice was in receiving 
order or not. 

" I do' know, child ; let it alone, and hand it right straight back 
to the gentleman — it's his'n," replied Mr. Skates, getting not a 
little impatient at his son's inquisitiveness. 

"But what is it, pa?" persisted James, pouting and scowling 
that the dawning of his curiosity should be so cruelly repressed. 

"I do' know, I tell you; it looks like a little newspaper about 
vittles. Now hold your tongue !" retorted Mr. Skates, as he took 
the soiled paper out of James's hand, and administered a box on 
his car sufficiently expressive to set him snivelling. 

This scene of course added to the amusement of the gay young 
people across the table. They discoursed very audibly about 
"Jonathans," and "bumpkins," and "country animals," and one 
young woman, more bold and vulgar-souled and ill-bred than her 
companions, though her face was royally beautiful, and her voice 
as soft and sweet as the song of a siren, and her diction, even in 
rude sarcasm, as polished and musical as the diction of an orator, 
called quite aloud, " "Waiter, do give me that little newspaper about 
vittles !" Her party joined in the joke with boisterous merriment, 
and poor Katy, instead of feeling honest contempt, rejoiced that 
her baby screamed just then, for even an uncomfortable and annoy- 
ing circumstance relieved the bitter confusion of a consciousness 
that she and her well-meaning husband were the unfortunate objects 
of such unprincipled ridicule. 

" That's what we call a bill of fare, mum, not a newspaper," 
replied the waiter, obsequiously, placing the paper in her fair hand. 

"Oh, I understand, sir!" retorted the disconcerted beauty, a 
flush of indignation mounting to her very temples, that a servant 
should dare to presume her ignorant; "your explanation is unne- 
cessary, quite;" but before she could deliver the rebuke she medi- 



MARIA J. E. BROWNE. 315 

tated, the offending Avaiter was out of hearing on the other side of 
the halL 

Mrs. Skates now began to hope that her sufferings for this once 
were at an end, but scarcely was the baby quieted, when James 
caught hold of the chain that depended from his mother's neck, and 
inquired with the most provoking innocence, " Whose is this, ma ? 
'Taint yours, is it? Cousin 'Phrony lent it to you; didn't she, ma?" 

" Sh-h-h, James !" fretted Mrs. Skates. I think at that moment 
she would have enjoyed the "trouncing business" right heartily! 
It was too vexatious that he should expose what one felt the keen- 
est anxiety to conceal — the fact that she was really glittering in 
••borrowed plumage !" 

"Shall you whip me, ma?" pursued the little wretch, taking 
alarm from his mother's severe expression, and cowering down in 
the chair behind his father, where he had been standing ; while 
that uncomfortable and embarrassed worthy was trying to clear his 
plate of its contents, and at the same time W"orking industriously 
to keep the perspiration from streaming in rivulets over his face. 
James managed to entertain himself in his new situation with his 
own perpetual chatter, and with scratching the chair with his fork, 
till the meal was finished. Oh, how glad were Mr. and Mrs. 
Skates when that event happened ! Poor Katy felt that her little 
No. 150 would be an asylum, indeed, she was so thoroughly dis- 
concerted ; and Mr. Skates felt that he should never desire to dine 
again as long as he lived ! Visions of his own quiet and social 
table at the forsaken home danced through his mind with a kind 
of tantalizing mockery ; and then the precious absence of ceremony 
there ! Sick, indeed, he was of so much ceremony, that " he didn't 
know nothing what they meant by !" He would have relished 
Katy's very poorest "washing-day hash," done up in "pot-skim- 
mings," a thousand times better than those elaborately served 
viands, and their multitude of French gastronomic accompaniments, 
and "feel so all shook-up in his mind," as he declared he had done 
at this first city dinner. 



ELIZABETH BOGAET. 



Miss Bogart has written only a few tales in prose, but they have all 
been of sterling excellence. 

Her first tale, " The Effect of a Single Folly," obtained a prize in the 
"Memorial," an Annual published in Boston, 1828. It was her first 
attempt at story writing, and was completed and sent secretly, without 
being submitted to any of her friends for correction or improvement. In 
the course of a few months afterward, she received a copy of the book 
from the publishers, and found, to her surprise, that she had been suc- 
cessful in obtaining one of the two prizes offered. From that circumstance, 
she was induced to write occasional tales for her own amusement, and 
convey them through the medium of different periodicals to the public. 
In 1830 she obtained a second prize for a tale entitled " The Forged 
Note ;" in 1844 another, for a domestic story, entitled " Arlington House;" 
and in 1849 the fourth, for "The Heiress, or Romance of Life."* 

She has written much more poetry than prose. The history of her 
mind in this respect is sketched with much beauty and simplicity in the 
following extract from a letter in reply to one making inquiries on this 
point. " My rhyming propensity," says she, " commenced, I believe, with 
my earliest powers of thought, as I remember nothing previous to my first 
attempts at scribbling verses; but those youthful productions were inva- 
riably destroyed from a feeling of difiidence, and an utter impossibility 
of satisfying myself. My ideas of excellence in metrical composition, so 

* The titles of her other stories are as follows: "The Secrets of the Heart," 
1828; "The Cloaked Gentleman," 1829; "Decourcy," 1829; "The Family of 
Mereditli," 1830; " Traditions of the Visions of Armies in the Heavens," 1814; 
"The Bachelor's Wedding," 181G; " Gertrude Wurtemburg," 1848 ; "Love and 
Politics," 1849; "Rose "Winters," 1849 ; " The Widow's Daughter," 1851 ; "The 
Auction, or the Wedding Coat," and "Ada Danforth, or the Will," not yet pub- 
lished. 

(316) 



ELIZABETH BOGART. 317 

far exceeded my own efforts, that I was frequently tempted to give up the 
Muse in despair, and probably I would have done so, had not the poetic 
passion been too strongly implanted in my nature. The indulgence of 
this love for embodying my thoughts and feelings in verse, was the happi- 
ness of my life. It was often cherished in the place of friends or lovers. 
It was my resource in solitude, my consolation in trials, my reward for 
disappointments, my relief in weariness, my recreation in idleness, and my 
delight in every change of residence, by which new scenes and scenery 
have been presented to my view." 

Miss Bogart was born in the city of New York, which was also the 
birth-place of her father and his ancestors for several generations back. 
They are descended on the paternal side from the Huguenots who fled to 
Holland after the revocation of the edict of Nantz, and emigrated from 
Holland to America. 

Her father was the Kev. David Schuyler Bogart, a graduate of Colum- 
bia College, and a minister of the gospel. In his profession, he was 
highly respected and esteemed, and exceedingly beloved by the people of 
his charge. Soon after entering on his profession he accepted a call to a 
Presbyterian church at Southampton, an isolated town, on the eastern part 
of Long Island, where he resided for fifteen years. There, in the village 
school-house. Miss Bogart received all her education, excepting what was 
given her by her father, whose instructions were continued even to the 
close of his life. From Southampton they removed, in 1813, to Hemp- 
stead Harbour, a wild and lovely spot, some eighty miles further west, and 
on the north side of the island. 

'' The scenery of the two places," says Miss Bogart, in the letter already 
quoted, ''presented a perfect contrast. The country at Southampton was 
entirely level, and the town situated immediately on the Atlantic, within 
sight of its foaming surf, and sound of its ceaseless roar — while Hemp- 
stead Harbour was located at the head of a beautiful bay running in from 
the Long Island Sound, and surrounded with high hills, covered with 
forest trees and evergreens. It was truly a place to charm the eye, and 
enrich .the imagination ; and thus it was, that while my first love was for 
the grand and magnificent ocean, my second was for the more fascinating 
and picturesque beauty of nature's scenery; amid which the early romance 
of my disposition was nurtured into an enduring character. The name 
of the little village of Hempstead Harbour has since been changed to that 
of Roslyn, but it seems to me an unmeaning appellation, and no improve- 
ment; although it will doubtless receive an eclat from the fact of our 
poet Bryant having fixed his residence there. 

'^ It was from my home in that place, in 1825, that I sent forth my 
first poem, simply headed ' Stanzas,' on a venture to the press. It wab 
published in the 'Long Island Star,' under the signature of 'Adelaide,' 
and made the subject of a complimentary poetical address in the same 



318 ELIZABETH BOGART. 

paper. I soon afterward commenced writing for '■ The New York Mirror/ 
which was at that time in its most flourishing state, under the able 
management of its propxietor, Greorge P. Morris. My signature was then 
changed to that of ' Estelle/ a «o?n de plume, which I have ever since 
retained ; and which, before my real name was known, procured me a 
poetical correspondent in the ' Mirror/ the history of which is quite a 
little romance. The correspondence was carried on at intervals, for nearly 
four years ; the writer being all the while utterly unknown to me, except- 
ing inasmuch as his poems declared him to be a gentleman of taste, talent, 
and education. He had mistaken me for another person, and notwith- 
standing my repeated denials of the identity, he persisted in addressing 
me as the ' Estelle' of his love, whose name I had unwittingly stolen. My 
curiosity became at length considerably excited, but he maintained his 
incognito ) and it was not until several yeai's after he had ceased writing, 
that I accidentally learned his name, and that by means of his initials, 
and the signature of ' Estelle' to the pieces passing between us in the 
' Mirror,' he had recovered his true ladye love, and married her." 

Miss Bogart was particularly fond of these little literary mysteries. 
They amused and interested her, and gave her both subject and occupa- 
tion. In the country she had always leisure, as well as love for the Muses. 
" Without this love," says she, " my life would have been divested of 
half its pleasures ; and without the leisure to indulge it, I think I should 
have felt as if time, however otherwise employed, were only wasted." 
Her fugitive poems have now accumulated to a number suiEcient to fill a 
large volume, although they have never been collected and prepared for 
publication in that form. 

In 1826 her father removed, with his family, into the city of New 
York, where he continued to reside during the remainder of his life. 
Miss Bogart lives there still. 

The first of the extracts which follow, is from " The Forged Note." 
It is a description of Arthur Mowbray, the hero of the " tale," given from 
the impression which the author, while a child, had received from seeing 
him. He had been a country boy, born and educated in humble life, and 
the history of his school days is first told. 



ARTHUR MOWBRAY. 

It was years after that period, that Arthur Mowbray came to 
iny father's house, a travelled and polished gentleman. The rus- 
ticity of country manners was entirely obliterated. Not a word or 
action betrayed his early habits, and those who knew him not would 
never have suspected his humble parentage. The grace and ease 



ELIZABETH BOGART. gl9 

of his behaviour made an impression on my childish fancy ; and 
though then incapable of judging of character or talent, I listened 
to his fluent and fascinating conversation with wonder and delight. 
He was indeed a young man of most astonishing powers. His 
Proteus mind assumed a thousand different shapes, from its inex- 
haustible store of knowledge, observation, and uncommon originality. 
The current of his ideas never ceased to flow for an instant ; and 
what was more remarkable, they passed over nothing in their 
course without adding a new touch of brilliancy, beauty, or vigour. 
No subject escaped his attention, nor was beyond his mastery. His 
giant intellect grasped the whole range of literature and science, 
and held them as nothing in its strength : and while others were 
seeking with weary labour their hidden treasures, he drew forth 
the pearls from their unfathomed depths, and cast them around him 
with an unsparing hand. His face and figure were eminently hand- 
some ; but the expression of his eyes I have never forgotten. It 
was wily, dark, and unstable. His sudden glance was like the 
lightning flash, which carries with it an involuntary thrill of fear. 
It told that the lieaj^t was not right. The seeds of vice had fallen 
promiscuously on its prolific soil, and choked, in their wild luxu- 
riance, the early growth of virtue. * * =ic * * 
[This character is justified by his after-course in life. He is con- 
victed of forgery, and sentenced to the State Prison, from wdiich 
"durance vile" he is released after three years, by a pardon from 
the Governor.] It was a bright and beautiful morning, when the 
bars were removed, and the bolts withdrawn from his prison doors ; 
and he came forth from the gloomy and frowning edifice, a solitary 
being in the midst of a gay and populous city. The clear heavens, 
and the bright earth, and the varied objects which met his eager 
gazo, yielded him no thought of pleasure ; 

" For bitter shame had spoiled the sweet world's taste." 

He knew that he could have no communion with those whom he 
had once known : and as he wandered on among the multitude of 
busy and happy faces, he experienced a feeling of hatred to man- 
kind, minirled with a sense of desolation more withering to his 



320 ELIZABETH BOG ART. 

heart than even the dreary and hopeless solitude of his prison cell. 
In the bitterness of his soul he cursed himself and his destiny. 
True, he was again free to walk the earth, and look upon his fellow- 
men ; but Cain-like, he was cast out as a fugitive and vagabond 
from among them. The mark of disgrace was set upon him. 
The stain of guilt and ignominy could never more be wiped from 
his name ; and he saw himself cut oif from that part of society 
which nature and education had fitted him to enjoy. His former 
visions of greatness could return to him no more ; and with 
the terrible consciousness of his irretrievable fall, his heart 
became hardened, and his conscience callous to the stings of 
reproach. 

[He was subsequently convicted of a similar crime in another 
State, and fated to die at last in a prison. A fragment of his 
history is given, as having been written by himself in his cell, 
in which he says,] " I know no dates for time. The days, and 
weeks, and months, are all alike to me. There is but one 
thought in my bosom continually, from the rising to the setting 
of the sun ; and it gnaws with ceaseless and corroding power 
on my heart. The tormenting thought that I am always in 
one place — that I cannot move beyond a certain limit, and that 
here I must remain until death closes my disgraceful career. 
My glass is nearly run, and I rejoice at it ; although I ought 
now to have been in the very prime of manhood : but my con- 
stitution has given way to the midnight revel, and the unna- 
tural excitement of the gaming table. The inebriating bottle 
has mingled its deadly poison in my blood ; gray hairs have 
scattered an untimely frost upon my head ; and the life of man 
already appears to me like a little speck in the ocean of eter- 
nity. Eternity ! No — there is no eternity ! I believe it not ! 
I am a renegade from the faith of my fathers ! I have laughed 
at all religion, and derided the idle terrors of a hell, as the 
mere bugbear of canting hypocintes. Why, then, did I speak 
of eternity ? We die, are laid in the grave, and are as if we 

had never been Even now, my brain is on fire. Reason 

totters. Philosophy trembles — and I sink — am lost." * * * 



ELIZABETH BOGART. 321 

KECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 

There are, perhaps, no scenes "which make so strong an impres- 
sion on the mind, as those with ^Yhich our early recollections are 
associated. Other things may pass from the memory, and be lost 
amid the vicissitudes of the world ; but these will still recur at in- 
tervals, as some wandering thought or truant feeling comes home 
to the heart. In such moments, I have frequently felt a strong 
and irrepressible desire to revisit the scenes of my childhood ; and 
it was with mingled emotions of pleasure and impatience that I at 
length prepared for the journey. Every spot was familiar to my 
imagination, and I even fancied on the way, that I could already 
hear the voices of welcome, and that I possessed the sight of Lyn- 
ceus to look through the distant space. It was at the close of a 
summer afternoon that we arrived at the place of our destination. 
The sun was setting in full splendour over the same local scenes 
which were engraven on the first page of my memory, and the 
changing hues of the clouds reminded me of those hours when I 
delighted to watch them till their gorgeous colours were lost in 
darkness. The moon looked down with bright, unaltered face, on 
the same green fields and clear waters, and the stars peeped out 
from their hidden worlds, as if to return my gaze of recognition. 
There was a kind of imaginary happiness connected with real ob- 
jects in my mind, as I walked through the quiet town. The little 
school-house where I was first taught the pleasant use of my pen, 
and the perplexing mysteries of figures, brought back many remi- 
niscences both ludicrous and interesting. The idea of the ingeni- 
ous and burlesque punishments, invented by our benevolent and 
good-natured teacher, for his mischievous, unruly boys, occasioned 
an involuntary burst of laughter, and the images of "Lew," 
"Tom," and "Bob," with their inked hands and shamed faces, 
seemed instantly to rise before me, but it was only for a moment. 
The question. Where is now our indulgent and beloved preceptor? 
darted across my mind, and I felt a pang of self-reproach, as I 
turned my eyes to the grave-yard, and remembered that he "rested 

from his labours," in the silent tomb. 
41 



JANE ELIZABETH LARCOMBE. 



Miss Larcombe has, within the last few years, won an honourable 
place among the magazinists of the country. Her tales are sprightly and 
piquant, and show a degree of originality and a fertility of invention, which 
augur well for her future and more elaborate eflForts. Her stories thus far 
have appeared in Neal's Gazette, Godey, Peterson, Sartain, as well as in 
the Annuals, and all under the assumed name of " Kate Campbell." She 
is at present engaged as a regular contributor to some of the religious 
periodicals of the church to which she belongs — the Baptist. 

Miss Larcombe was born January 13, 1829, at Colebrook, Connecticut. 
The family removed in 1831, to Danbury, Connecticut; in 1834, to Sau- 
gerties, New York; and in 1835, to Philadelphia, where they still reside. 
She is descended, on the mother's side, of a Scottish family, staunch cove- 
nanters. Iler father, who is a clergyman, 'and who, the greater part of 
his life, has been chaplain to the Eastern Penitentiary of Pennsylvania, 
is of French descent, from the Waldenses of Piedmont. The family left 
France at the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and settled in Bristol, 
England, and thence emigrated to Hartford, Connecticut. 

On the 4th of November, 1851, Miss Larcombe was married to the Rev. 
Heman Lincoln, of the Baptist church. 



THOUGHTS BY THE WAYSIDE. 

A SUMMER twilight ! wlio enjoys it ? or rather, who can resist 
the magnetism which draw's one to the open window, beneath which 
the leaves of the trees tremble in the quiet air, w'hile the Heaven 
above lies so hushed and smiling, with a calmness as though it had 
been shedding tears, and, worn and exhausted, could do nought but 
smile languidly on the broad, sinful earth ? 

(S22) 



JANE ELIZABETH LAECOMBE. 323 

Yet we can remember, when a little child, thinking the twilight 
hour the gloomiest of the twenty-four — a dark spirit commanding 
us to give up work or play, and loiter restlessly around the house, 
till the first welcome glimmer of a light released us from its dismal 
thraldom. It seemed to us the most particularly unpleasant 
arrangement of nature to be conceived, and often and often did we 
wonder ourself stupid, trying to solve the phenomenon. 

It was equally puzzling to see with what a spirit of enjoyment 
the "old folks" settled themselves comfortably in their easy chairs, 
and with eyes fixed on the fading heavens, seemed soaring away 
from earthly cares and joys. Instinctively we felt that mirth and 
mischief must be postponed to a more convenient season. 

When we grew older, wise enough to contrive, we got along much 
better ; the gathering gloom of evening was the signal for a general 
muster ; out we flew from the quiet parlour to the dim hall and 
passages, where, with stifled shouts and shrieks of mysterious mer- 
riment, we indulged in all the excitement of a game at hide and 
seek, or, when tired out, gathered in a compact knot at the foot of 
the stairs, and with elbows on our knees, heads supported by our 
hands, and eyes widely dilated, listened to the delicious horrors of 
some marvellous tale of ghost or ogre. Such stories ! no one else 
ever dreamed of such delights ! Such giants as we had ! such 
fairies ! such a quantity of winding-sheets as our favourite narrator 
provided for us ! — our brother, with his wide, smiling mouth, and 
glistening teeth ! We can see him now, his rosy face ever in a 
perpetual grin, even while skilfully depicting scenes which made 
" each individual hair to stand on end" among his entranced audi- 
ence ! Our brother ! — " gone, but not lost." 

Sometimes, too, of a winter's evening, we found our way into 
the warm, bright, cozy kitchen, bringing our noise and mirth with 
us, which was speedily quelled, however, through the influence of 
the presiding spirit of the place — a tidy, thrifty servant girl, who 
loved us all dearly — troublesome as we were — and who, despite her 
unattractive appearance, stole a place for herself in our kind 
memories. She was an Irish girl, with features strongly marked 



324 JANE ELIZABETH LARCOMBE. 

"with small-pox, and a most disastrous hump between her shoulders; 
short in person, somewhat short in speech, but withal, the kindest 
heart that ever beat ! Dearly did she love to gather the unruly 
crowd of boys and girls around her glowing, social fire, and hush 
them to a grave-like stillness with the wild legends of her native 
isle. 

Ah, well ! those days have passed and gone now, for ever. 
"We can only sit quietly by the open window and think of the 
"now, and what has been," and rem.ember with a blending of the 
mirthful and sorrowful — a kind of comic sadness — how we grew out 
of those pleasant ways ; how our first influx of sentimentalism crept 
in about the time we put up our " elf-locks wildly floating," and 
imbibed a strong disgust for long-sleeved checked aprons ; how we 
took to reading newspaper poetry, descriptive of the " shining 
stars" and "silver moon," and naturally enough, went from that 
to looking in the gray heavens for them ; how we laid aside the 
favourite book, smoothed down the folds of our dress, and seated 
ourself methodically at the window, vis-d-vis to our mother, and 
gazed perseveringly at the steadfast skies, persuading ourself that 
we were immeasurably happy, while all the time, had we listened 
to. the heart's truth, tears would have been dropping for the good 
old times — the "joyous days of yore" — with the romp in the hall, 
the blazing kitchen fire, the hump-backed servant girl, and the 
merry playmates, now slumbering beneath the sod. 

So, after all, it took Time, patient teacher, to instil a full appre- 
ciation of the delights of twilight. Time brought the thousand 
things which make at once the charm and the sadness of that mys- 
tic hour ; — the fleeting, intangible Past, the ideal hues which form 
a fairy halo round the most common-place occurrences ; the real 
Present, contrasting vividly with the buried life ; the last friends 
beyond the skies to draw our thoughts thither, and more than all, 
the feeling that Ave have tasted through experience somewhat of 
existence, and have earned a right to moralize upon its fleeting 
pleasures. 



EMILY C. JUDSON, 

(fanny rORKESTER.) 

Emily C. Chubbuck was born in the pleasant town of Morrisville, in 
the central part of New York. This is the " Alderbrook" so familiar to 
her readers. Here she made a profession of religion^ and connected hor- 
self with the Baptist church. 

From Morrisvillc she went to Utica, to engage in teaching. While 
living at Utica, she made her first essays at authorship. These consisted 
of some small volumes of a religious character published by the Baptist 
Publication Society, and poetical contributions to the Knickerbocker. 
None of these, however, attracted any special attention. The first pro- 
duction of her pen that is at all noticeable was a light article which she 
wrote, without any very definite design, under the assumed name of 
" Fanny Forrester," to the " New Mirror," while on a visit to the city of 
New York. This was in June, 1844. The editor had the sagacity, in 
this, as in several other instances, to perceive at once the evidences of 
genius that appeared in this playful bagatelle, and by a warm and judi- 
cious commendation, led the author to a continued, and, in the end, most 
successful, exploration of the vein thus accidentally brought to light. A 
series of essays, sketches, and poems followed, of a very brilliant character, 
which in 1846 were collected and published in two volumes under the title 
of " Alderbrook." 

In the beginning of 1846, the venerable missionary Judson returned to 
America, to visit the churches. On coming to Philadelphia, he was directed 
to Miss Chubbuck as a suitable person to prepare a memoir of his lately 
deceased wife, the second Mrs. Judson. Miss Chubbuck, then resident in 
Philadelphia, cheerfully undertook the grateful task. Being thus thrown 
much together, a mutual affection sprung up between them, and the favoured 
child of literature joyfully laid aside the laurels then fresh upon her brow, 
to go, as the wife of Dr. Judson, on a self-denying mission to the Burmans. 
They were married, at Hamilton, New York, June 2, 1846, and soon after 

(S25) 



326 EMILY C. JUD SON. 

sailed fur Burmah. The ''Memoir" was published in 1848. Dr. Judson 
died at IMaulniain, in Burmah, in 1850. Soon after the death of her 
husband, Mrs. Judson returned to the United States. Her health soon 
began to decline, and on the first of June, 1854, after a lingering illness, 
she died at the residence of her brother, at Hamilton, Madison county, 
New York. 

LUCY DUTTON. 

It was an October morning, warm and sunny, but Avitli even its 
sunshine subdued into a mournful softness, and its gorgeous drapery 
chastened by a touch of the dreamy atmosphere into a sympathy 
with sorrow. And there was a sorrowing one who needed sympa- 
thy on that still, holy morning — the sympathy of the great Heart 
which beats in Nature's bosom — for she could hope no other. Poor 
Lucy Dutton ! 

There was a funeral that morning — a stranger would have judged 
by the gathering that the great man of the village was dead, and 
all that crowd had come out to do his ashes honour — but it was not 
so. Yet the little, old-fashioned church was filled to overflowing. 
Some there were that turned their eyes devoutly to the holy man 
that occupied the sacred desk, receiving from his lips the words of 
life ; some looked upon the little coffin that stood, covered with its 
black pall, upon a table directly below him, and perhaps thought 
of their own mortality, or that of their bright little ones ; while 
many, very many, gazed with cold curiosity at the solitary mourner 
occupying the front pew. This was a young creature, in the very 
spring-time of life, — a frail, erring being, whose only hope was in 
Him who said, " Neither do I condemn thee — go, and sin no 
more." There was a weight of shame upon her head, and woe 
upon her heart, that together made the bereaved young mother 
cower almost to the earth before the prying eyes that came to look 
upon her in her disti-essing humiliation. Oh ! it was a pitiful sight ! 
that crushed, helpless creature's agony. 

But the year before, and this same lone mourner was considered 
a sweet, beautiful child, whom everybody was bound to protect and 
love ; because, but that she was the pet lamb of a doting old wo 



, EMILY C. JUDSON. 327 

man, she was Avithout friend and protector. Lucy Dutton was the 
last blossom on a tree whicli had boasted many fair ones. When 
the grave opened to one after another of that doomed family, till 
none but this bright, beautiful bud was left, she became the all in 
all, and with the doting affection of age was she cherished. When 
poverty came to Granny Dutton's threshold, she drew her one 
priceless jewel to her heart, and laughed at poverty. When sor- 
rows of every kind compassed her about, and the sun went down 
in her heaven of hope, another rose in a holier heaven of love ; and 
Lucy Dutton was this fountain of love-born light. The old lady 
and her pretty darling occupied a small, neat cottage, at the foot 
of the hill, with a garden attached to it, in which the child flitted 
all day long, like a glad spirit among the flowers. And, next to 
her child-idol, the simple-hearted old lady loved those flowers, with 
a love which pure natures ever bear to the beautiful. It was by 
these, and the fruit produced by the little garden, that the tAvain 
lived. Many a fine carriage drew up before the door of the hum- 
ble cottage, and bright ladies and dashing gentlemen sauntered 
beneath the shade, while the rosy fingers of Lucy adjusted bou- 
quets for them, her bright lips wreathed with smiles, and her 
sunny eye turning to her grandmother at the placing of every stem, 
as though for approbation of her taste. Not a child in all the 
neighbourhood was so happy as Lucy. Not a child in all the 
neighbourhood was so beautiful, so gentle, and so good. And 
nobody ever thought of her as anything but a child. Though she 
grew to the height of her tallest geranium, and her form assumed 
womanly proportions, nobody, not even the rustic beaux around 
her, thought of her as anything but a child. Lucy was so artless, 
and loved her dear old grandmother so truly, that the two were 
somehow connected in people's minds, and it seemed as impossible 
that the girl should grow older, as that the old lady should grow 
younger. 

Lucy was just booked for fifteen, with the seal of innocence 
upon her heart, and a rose-leaf on her cheek, when " the Hei^man 
property," a fine summer residence that had been for years unoc- 
cupied, was purchased by a widow lady from the metropolis. She 



328 EMILY C. JUDSON. 

came to Alderbrook early in the spring, accompanied by her only 
son, to visit her new possessions, and finding the spot exceedingly 
pleasant, she determined to remain there. • And so Lucy met the 
young metropolitan ; and Lucy was beautiful and trusting, and 
thoughtless ; and he was gay, selfish, and profligate. Needs the 
story to be told ? 

When the Howards went away, Lucy awoke from her dream. 
She looked about her, and upon herself, Avith the veil taken from 
her eyes ; and then she turned from all she had ever loved ; for, 
in the breaking up of those dreams, was broken poor Lucy's heart. 
Nay, censor, Lucy was a child — consider how very young, how 
very untaught — oh ! her innocence was no match for the sophistry 
of a gay city youth ! And young Howard stole her unthinking 
heart the first day he looked in to purchase a bouquet. Poor, poor 
Lucy ! 

Before the autumn leaves fell. Granny Button's bright pet knelt 
in her little chamber, and upon her mother's grave, and down by 
the river-side, where she had last met Justin Howard, and prayed 
for death. Sweet, joyous Lucy Button, asking to lay her bright 
head in the grave ! Spring came, and shame was stamped upon 
the cottage at the foot of the hill. Lucy bowed her head upon her 
bosom, and refused to look upon anything but her baby ; and the 
old lady shrunk, like a shrivelled leaf, before this last and greatest 
of her troubles. The neighbourhood had its usual gossip. There 
were taunts, and sneers, and coarse jests, and remarks severely 
true ; but only a little, a very little, pity. Lucy bore all this well, 
for she knew that it was deserved ; but she had worse than this to 
bear. Every day she knelt by the bed of the one being who had 
doted upon her from infancy, and begged her blessing, but in vain. 
" Oh ! that I had laid you in the coffin, with your dead mother, 
when all around me said that the breath had passed from you !" 
was the unvarying reply; " then my gray hairs might have gone 
down to the grave without dishonour from the child that I took 
from the gate of death, and bore for years upon my bosom. Would 
you had died, Lucy !" 

And Lucy would turn away her head, and, in the bitterness of 



E M I LY C . J U D S N , 329 

her heart, echo, " Aj ! would that I had died !" Then she would 
take her baby in her arras, and, while the scalding tears bathed its 
unconscious face, pray God to forgive the wicked wish, and pre- 
serve her life for the sake of this sinless heir to shame. And 
sometimes Lucy would smile — not that calm, holy smile which 
usually lingers about an infant's cradle, but a faint, sicklied play 
of the love-light within, as though the mother's fond heart were 
ashamed of its own throbbings. But, before the autumn passed, 
Lucy Dutton was fearfully stricken. Death came ! She laid her last 
comfort from her bosom into the coffin, and they were now bearing 
it to tho grave, — she, the only mourner. It mattered but little 
that the grandmother's forgiveness and blessing came now ; Lucy 
scarce knew the difference between these words and those last 
spoken ; and most earnestly did she answer, " Would, would that 
I had died !" Poor, poor, Lucy ! 

She sat all through the sermon, and the singing, and the prayer, 
with her head bowed upon the side of the pew ; and when at last 
they bore the coffin to the door, and the congregation began to 
move forward, she did not raise it until the kind clergyman came 
and led her out to take a last look at her dead boy. Then she laid 
her thin, pale face against his within the coffin, and sobbed aloud. 
And now some began to pity the stricken girl, and whisper to their 
neighbours that she was more sinned against than sinning. Still 
none came forward to whisper the little word which might have 
brought healing, but the holy man whose duty it was. He took 
her almost forcibly from the infant clay, and strove to calm her, 
while careless eyes came to look upon that dearer to her than her 
own heart's blood. Finally, curiosity was satisfied ; they closed 
the coffin, screwed down the lid, spread the black cloth over it, and 
the procession began to form. Minister Green left the side of the 
mourner, and took his station in advance, accompanied by some 
half dozen others ; then four men followed, bearing the light coffin 
in their hands, and all eyes were turned upon the mourner. She 
did not move. 

"Pass on, madam," said Squire Field, who always acted the 

part of marshal on such occasions ; and, though little given to the 
42 



330 EMILY C. JUDSON. 

weakness of feeling, he now softened his voice as much as it would 
bear softening. " This way — right behind the — the — pass on !" 

Lucy hesitated a moment, and many a generous one longed to 
step forward and give her an arm ; but selfish prudence forbade. 
One bright girl, who had been Lucy's playmate from the cradle, 
but had not seen her face for many months, drew impulsively 
towards her ; but she met a reproving eye from the crowd, and 
only whispering, ^'Ido pity you, Lucy!" she shrunk back, and 
sobbed almost as loud as her erring friend. Lucy started at the 
words, and, gazing wildly round her, tottered on after the coflSn. 

Loud, and slow, and fearfully solemn, stroke after stroke, the 
old church-bell doled forth its tale ; and slowly and solemnly the 
crowd moved on with a measured tread, though there was many a 
careless eye and many a smiling lip, turning to other eyes and 
other lips, with something like a jest between them. On moved 
the crowd after the mourner ; while she, with irregular, laboured 
step, her arms crossed on her bosom, and her head bent to the 
same resting-place, just kept pace with the body of her dead boy. 
Winding through the opened gate into the church-yard, they went 
trailing slowly through the long, dead grass, while some of the 
children crept slily from the procession, to pick up the tufts of 
scarlet and yellow leaves, which made this place of graves strangely 
gay ; and several young people wandered off, arm in arm, pausing 
as they went, to read the rude inscriptions lettered on the stones. 

On went the procession, away to the farthermost corner, where 
slept the stranger and the vagabond. Here a little grave had been 
dug, and, the coffin was now set down beside it, while the long pro- 
cession circled slowly round. Several went up and looked into the 
dark, damp cradle of the dead child ; one observed to his neigh- 
bour that it was very shallow ; and another said that Tom Jones 
always slighted his work when there was nobody to see to it ; any- 
how, it was not much matter, the child would stay buried ; and 
another let drop a jest, a hard, but not very witty one, though it 
was followed by a smothered laugh. All this passed quietly ; 
nothing was spoken above a low murmur ; but Lucy heard it all ; 



EMILY C. JUDSON. 33I 

and, as slie heard and remembered, wliat a repulsive thing seemed 
to her the human heart ! Poor Lucy Dutton ! 

Minister Green stood at the head of the grave and said a prayer, 
while Lucy leaned against a sickly-looking tree, alone, and pressed 
her cold hands against her temples, and wondered if she should 
ever pray again — if God Avould hear her if she should. Then they 
laid the little coffin upon ropes, and gently lowered it. The grave 
was too short, or the men were careless, for there was a harsh 
grating against the hard earth, which made Lucy start and extend 
her arms ; but she instantly recollected herself, and, clasping her 
hands tightly over her mouth, lest her agony should make itself 
heard, she tried to stand calmly. Then a handful of straw was 
thrown upon the coffin, and immediately a shovelful of earth fol- 
lowed. Oh ! that first sinking of the cold clod upon the bosom we 
have loved ! What a fearful, shivering sensation, docs it send to 
the heart and along the veins ! And then the benumbing faint- 
ness which follows, as though our own breath were struggling up 
through that damp covering of earth ! Lucy gasped and staggered, 
and then she twined her arm about the body of the little tree, and 
laid her cheek against its rough bark, and strove hard to keep her- 
self from falling. 

Some thought the men were very long in filling up the grave, 
but Lucy thought nothing about it. She did not, after that first 
shovelful, hear the earth as it fell ; and when, after all was done 
and the sods of withered grass had been laid on. Minister Green 
came to tell her, she did not hear his voice. When she did, she 
pushed back the hair from her hollowed temples, looked vacantly 
into his face, and shook her head. Others came up to her — a good- 
natured man who had been kind to her grandmother ; then the 
deacon's wife, followed by two or three other women ; but Lucy 
only smiled and shook her head. Glances full of troubled mystery 
passed from one to another ; there was an alarmed look on many 
faces, which those more distant seemed to comprehend ; and still 
others came to speak to Lucy. It was useless — she could find no 
meaning in their words — the star of intellect had gone out — the 
temple was darkened. Poor, poor Lucy Dutton ! 

3? 



•M-2 KiM 1 l-V <'. J 11 I) SON. 

'V]\vy l)t)r(' licr Iioine — for ylH> was j)!issivc and liolplc^^s — lioiiio to 
the sick old ^randtudllu'V, ayIio laid licr witliortMl Iiaiid on those 
bright locks, mul kisHcd tho cold cheek, and took her to her bosom, 
as though slio had been an infant. And Lucy smiled, and talked 
of playing by tho brook, and cliasing the runaway bees, and of 
toys for her baby-house, and wonth-re*! Avliy they •were all Aveeping, 
])ar(ieularly dear grandniannua., Avho ought to be so hapj)y. Hut 
this lasted only n few days, and then another grave was nuide, and 
yet another, in tlie poor's corjier ; and the granduu)ther and her 
shattered idol slept togotlior. Tho grave is a blessed couch and 
pillow to the wretched. Ivest thee there, poor Lucy ! 



MY FIRST GRIEF. 

1 i,AiM)iiKi> and crowed above this -water, -when T "was ai baby, 
and, tluM'er«u-(\ 1 love it. 1 played besi(h> i(, ■when the days ■were 
years of summer-time, and tho summers Avcre young eternities of 
brightness, and, therefore, I love it. It was the scene of my first 
grief, too. Shall I tell you ? There is not much to tell, but T 
have a notion that there are people above us, up in the air, and 
behind the clouds, that consider little girls' doings about as im{)or- 
tai\t as those of men and womon. Tlu^ bii'ds and tho angels are 
great levellers. 

It Mas a dry season ; the brook was low, and a. gay trout in a 
coat of golden brown, dottxMl over with crimson, and a. silver pina- 
fore, lay, Aveather-bound, on the lialf-dry stones, all heated and 
panting, Avith about a tea-spoonful of lukewarm Avator, turning 
la/.ily from its head, and creeping doAvn its back at too sIoav a pace 
to alVotd llu> su(ler(>r hope of emanci[)ation. IMy sympathies — little 
girls, you must knoAV, are nuide up of love and sympathy, and such 
like follies, Avhich afterAvards contract into — iiimporte! I Avas 
saying, my sympathies Avoro aroused ; and, quite forgetting that 
Avater Avould take' the gloss from mv ncAV red nu>rocco shoes, I 



EMILY C. JUDSON. .3:33 

picked my way along, and laying hold of my fine gentlcniau in 
limbo, succeeded in burying him, -wet face and all, in the folds of 
my Avlnte apron ! But Huch an uneasy prisoner ! More than one 
frightened toss did he get into the grass, and then I had an infinite 
deal of trouble to secure him again. His gratitude was very like 
that of humans', when you do them unasked service. 

When I had reached a cool, shaded, deep spot, far adown, where 
the spotted alders lean, like so many self-enamoured narcissuses, 
over the ripplc-faccd mirror, I dropped my apron, and let go my 
prize. Ah! he was grateful then! lie must have been! How 
he dived, and sprang to the surface, and spread out his little wings 
of dark-ribbed gossamer, and frisked about, keeping all the time a 
cool, thin sheet of silver between his back and the sun-sick air ! I 
loved that pretty fish, for I had been kind to it ; and I thought it 
would love me, too, and stay there, and be a play-fellow for me ; so 
I went every day and Avatched for it, and watched until my little 
eyes ached; but I never saAV it again. That was my first grief: 
what is there in years to make a heart ache heavier? That first 
will be longer remembered than the last. I dare say. 



SAKA J. liirPrN(W)TT. 

((! li ACK (J K 10 KN H OOD.) 

Saka ,'i . Ci.AitKl'; was Imrii in l'(iiii|u'v, :m inland Imvn in llu> (HMinty 
of (humda!;!!, New \ Ork. lli'r(\ and in llic ni'ii.';ldu>iirin^ (own of l^'aliius, 
.slio spent tlio groalof purliim of hrr cliildliiHul. .Hiirinfi; lioi- oavly girlhood 
►sho rosidml witli lu'v pan-nts, ad Koidu'sti>r, N. V., but at (liu ai;'o of niuo- 
li'cn rcmovi'd willi tlicni (o Now Ivrighton, rcnn., wliirli lias sini-o boon 
luT nominal homo, though pnhaps tlio largor part of lior timo is spout 
will) hor IVionds, iu Now Kugland, at AV^ashington, and IMnladolphia. 

JMiss ('lai'lvo \vro((> \orso at au oarly ago, and ])ublisluHl viudor hi-r own 
nanio ; but, on oomiug out as a prosi" writer, being tloubtful ol" the experi- 
ment, she shiel(K>d luM'selC behiiul a. iio)ii dt' pluDU'. Her sueeess has thus 
far greatly oxeeedeil the exju'elatious ol" her nmst sanguiue iVii-nds. Vet, in 
a life of eonslant ehaugo and {>xeileinent, of extensive aiul jdeasant soeial 
relations, she has not been able to eoneeulra.tt> lu>r jiowers on any important, 
work, liut has given Ihouv at best but imperfeet exereise iu a series of 
magazine arlicdes, brief sketehes, light eriticjues, and light(>r letters. 

A sideetion from her proso writings, making a volume o\' over four hun- 
dred pages, entitled "(Jreenwood I weaves," was puhlislunl in th(> fall ol' 
IS'U). '.riiis W(U'k has reached a third edition, in the autuu\u o{' the fol- 
lowing year was brought out a oolleetion of her ]HHMns, a vohnuo of JDO 
pages; also, a volume of original juvenile stories, entitled " IlistiuT of IMy 
Pets," both oi' wliieh ])ubru'ations luivo passed thrmigh .several I'ditious. 

In the autumn of ISM, she ]>ublished **((reeuwood Leaves, Heeond 
Series," and another voIuuu> of juvenile stories, entitled " Jieeolleetions of 
mv Childhood." 

In the s|)ring of IS;")'J, iMiss (Marke visited l*airope, and spent about 
iifleen months in b'ngland, Ireland, Seotland, b'ranee, Italy, and the Tyrol. 
On her return, she ])nblished a voIunu> of travels, entitled '' Haps and Mis- 
haps iif a 'Tour iu I'lurope." This has proved her most sueeessful work. 

In Oetober, ISf);!, slu^ was married to Mr. Leander K. Lippineott, of 
riiihulelphia, removt>d to that city, and oonnneneed M'lth her lui.sband the 
editorship and publieatiou of a juviMiilo numthly journal entitled "The 
liittle I'ii.-riui." 

'.rhe father oi' IMrs. Ijippiueott, IXu'tor Thaddeus Clarke, I'ormerly a 

(331) 
\ 



SARA J. T, 1 1' r 1 N C T T. .'W5 

|)liysici;in of s^nio cmiiuMicc!, w;iH l)i)rn in iicbiuioii, (JoiincMtticut., of a ^ood 
old Puritan wtock. IIo died at New JJrij^litoii, l<\'Lruary ir)tli, 1854. llor 
nioUicr, a native of Brooklyn, (Joiiiiecticiiit, is of 1 lu^eiiot d(!,scont. 8iira, tlio 
youngest daughter, is one of elisven cliil(lr(!ii, nine of whom are now living. 

The following carefully written estimate of the inttillecluid elniraetiir of 
Mrs. Lippincott is from the pen of that accomplished critic, the Rev. 
Henry GilcH : 

"That draco Greenwood is a writ(;r, ready, rapid, bold, brillinnt, and 
most discursive, whatever she throws from her pen at once reveuls. Hut 
to he ready and rapid is uften In ]h\ nothing more than possessed of fatal 
facility; and to seem bold, brilliant, and discursive is frequently to have 
only the hardihood of ignorance, and to bo glittering and superficial. The 
readiness and rai)idity, however, of this writer are in themselves surprising, 
from the truth and force with which thought keeps pace with expression; 
and w(! wnnder to lind so much tru(( beauty, so much genuine coinage; of 
golden faiu'ies in the prodigality with which she llings about her shining 
ston;. Y(!t not on these do wo dwell, aiul not by these does she win the 
cordial feeling with which we regard her genius. We lind in it a noblo 
seriousness. JJouuding, elastic, and sportive as her innigination is, it is 
not all a sparkling stream, and is not all in sunlight; it winds at times 
through the solemn shadows of life; aiul it has springs in the sources of 
nillective thought, to make for itself, and fill deeper and broad(!r channels 
(iian any of those in which it has yet found outlets. As it is, the impulses 
of earnest purpose and the gush of generous desire, often break to pieces 
the delicate wreath which had been already half woven out of ingeinous 
fanci(!S, and cast the scattered flowers upon the boiling torrent of indignant 
sympathies. The workings of mere fancy, however admirable or adminid, 
could n(!V(!r exhaust, could never ex[iress, could n(!ver contimt a nature 
such as hers — for she feels too much in herscdf, and she feels too much for 
others, to lind only play and summer-time; in the life of genius. In the 
gayest tale of hers, we read below it meanings from the heart; in the most 
laughing letter, we can often discern a pensive wisdom hidden in the 
smile ; in the passing criticism on a work of art, wo have often not only 
the fine enthusiasm, which flanuis up with the love of beauty; but when 
th(! work is devotional, we have, with phrase more happy and with spirit 
more profound, the subdued elcx^uencc of inborn reverence. The serious- 
ness of (Jlrace (lireenwood is not the less intense because it is not moody 
or murky; because it does not tire you with tears, nor disturb you with 
groans, nor disgust you with men, mir dishrartcn you with nature. (Jrace 
is too healthy for mumps; she is too slneen; to b(; maudlin; she is too 
cheerful for lamentations; and her love is loo large I'm- creation and too 
kind, to tolerate the gloom of a dissatisfied spirit. JJut no soul is more 
quick to kindle at a wrong done to the lowest; and no soul more brave to 
rebuke unworthincss in the highest. Yet is her heart gentle, compas- 
sionate; aroused only by the very strength of its goodness; by its hatred 



IVAC) SAllA .1. M 1'P1N(^()TT. 

!ia;;iinst injustice, and by i(s synipalliy willi sullcrini;'. 1']v(M1 wIumi a hifty 
anger moves lirr, there is ever siiiliinu; tliroiigh its tones a soimd of i>ity. 
For there is nothing that we eati bt^ riglitly angry at in this world, but wo 
must pity also. Every soul that feels much, feels this. 

" We think, therefore, that in her pages, radiant as they seem, wo can 
read, without any doubtful interpretation, meanings of sadness. If it were 
not so, we should be disappointed ; for they manifest that genius of a 
loving humanity, which cannot help but oftentimes bo sad. Grace Green- 
wood, say what persons will, is not what we should call a sprightly writer. 
Her productions are \\ot mere sprightly flashes, but many-toned utterances 
of feelings, that lay deep down in the breast, and to which occasions gave 
nothing but expression. 

" Genius, accompanied with strong sensibility, were it not for certain com- 
pensations, would be a penalty and not a boon. Such compensation Grace 
(ireenwood has in considerable aflluence. One of these is the relief that 
mental hilarity gives to mental intensity. Strong as her perception is of 
what is serious in life, it has its counterpoise by her equally strong feeling 
of what is joyous. The grave and troubled condition of man's estate we 
can observe that she reverently appreciates; but we can as well observe 
that she also detects man's absurdities and vanities, and heartily she laughs 
at them. Yet is there no contempt in the laughter, but an affectionate 
humanity. She has humour most rich and racy — that which springs from 
keenness of intellect, fullness of imagination, kindliness of temper, and 
playfulness of spirit. 

" This ren\ark has its proof and its example in the parodies contained in 
some of her writings. The imitation is unmisfakeable ; the fun resist- 
less ; and yet, we are so made to feel the beauty of the writers in the bur- 
lesque, that while wc laugh wc admire. And this enjo3'ment of beauty is 
another compensation for the painful sensibility of genius, and the only 
other we shall mention. The language, and the activity of such enjoy- 
ment in Grace Greenwood, no one can doubt, who reads her pages with 
any si)irit like her own. Neither can we doubt the sincerity of it and its 
healthiness. It is no matter of artificial or factitious cultivation; it has 
grown with her in her native valleys and. woodlands; she has listened to 
its music in the foitinings of her native waves and torrents; she has gazed 
upon its majestic forms in the glory of her native mountains; and she has 
communed with the boundless spirit of it in that mighty azure dome of 
matchless purity that rests over her native land." 



A DREAM OF DEATH. 

How appropriate, and sadly truthful, is tlio expression, " The 
niglit of the grave !" ILoav the deep shadows of iraj^euotrable mys- 
tery hang about the dread portals of eternity ; hoAV, in a})proach- 



SARA J. LIP P INGOT T. 337 

ing tlicm, even in tliouglit, avo lose ourselves in clouds, and grope 
in thick darkness ! 

In the near and solemn contemplation of the awful change which 
awaits us all, how eagerly does the soul receive everything, in 
religion, philosophy, or personal experience, Avhich lifts, or seems 
to lift, even a little way, a corner of the vast curtain which hides 
from our mortal view the spirit-realm to which we go ; letting in 
gleams of its immortal joy and glory, to light and cheer our painful 
path through the dark valley. 

During a late illness, there came a dream to me as I slept, which 
left a solemn and ineifaceable impress upon my mind, but to which 
I may seem, by relating, to attach undue importance ; for, after 
all, it was but a dream ; and I hardly know how it is, that I have 
so laid it away in my heart, as a treasure of exceeding worth, almost 
as a heavenly revelation. It was no wild, mystic, and fanciful 
dream, but strangely distinct and beautifully consistent through- 
out ; and it is with the most faithful truthfulness that I now ven- 
ture to relate it, hoping that to some hearts it may have, or seem 
to have, a meaning and a purpose. 

In my vision, it seemed that my last hour of tlio life of earth 
was swiftly passing from me. The dread presence of Death fdled 
my chamber with mourning and gloom, and awe unspeakable. I\Iy 
heart, like a caged bird, now struggled and fluttered wildly in my 
breast, now seemed sinking, faint, and panting with weariness and 
fear. The last mist was creeping slowly over my eyes, and I heard 
but imperfectly tlie words of prayer, sorrow, and tenderness, 
breathed around me. Dear forms were at my side, clasping my 
cold hands, and weeping upon my neck. The bosom of the best 
beloved pillowed my poor head ; her hand wiped the deatli-dew 
from my brow ; she spoke to me strong words of comfort, crushing 
down the great anguish of her heart the while. 

It was no hour of joy or triumph ; my spirit was not buoyed up 

by exulting faith, nor did waiting angels minister to it the peace 

and consolation of Heaven ; but storm, and darkness, and fear, 

encompassed it, filling it with wild regrets, an awful expectation, a 

sore dismay. Its feet were already set in the river of death ; but, 
43 



338 SARA J. LIPPINCOTT. 

like a timid child, it shrank from the chill, midnight waves, and 
clung convulsively to its earthly loves, — vain, alas ! to protect, 
powerless to detain ! 

Soul and body parted, as they part who have lived and suffered, 
and toiled together, in bondage, but who love one another, and 
who, at last, are torn asunder by the inexorable will of a remorse- 
less master. 

But joy for one of these ! for whom the weariness of mortal 
bondage was to give place to the freedom of eternity ; the pain, 
the struggle, the fear, the sorrow of its earthly lot, to peace, rest, 
assurance, and joy unspeakable ! for, at last, at last, that soul, 
breaking from this poor life, with one glad bound, leaped into 
immortality ! Oh ! the sudden comprehension of the height and 
depth of the fulness of being ! How every thought, and aspiration, 
and affection, and power, seemed springing up into everlasting 
life! 

But methought that the first feeling or sentiment, of which I 
was conscious, was freedom, — freedom, which brought with it a 
sense of joy, and power, and glorious exultation, utterly indescrib- 
able in words. Ah ! it was beautiful, that this crowning gift of 
God to His creatures, which had ever been so dear to my human 
heart ; this principle, Avliich here I had so adored, was the first 
pure and perfect portion of the Divine life, whoso presence I hailed 
Avith the great and voiceless rapture of a disenthralled spirit. 

Methought that I witnessed no immediate visible manifestation 
of Deity, heard no audible revelation of the Divine existence ; but 
that I received fullness of faith, and greatness of knowledge, in 
loneliness and stillness, yet instantaneously, and more like recol- 
lections than revelations. Cloud after cloud rolled swiftly away 
from the dread mysteries of eternity, till all was meridian bright- 
ness and surpassing glory. The presence of Deity was round 
about me everywhere — -felt, methought, not beheld; it flowed to 
mc in the air, " every undulation filled Avitli soul;" floated about 
me in the rapt silence, like an all-pervading essence, diffusing itself 
abroad over the great immensity of being. 

There was no sudden unveiling of my eyes to behold the burning 



SARA J. LIPPINCOTT. 339 

splendours of the dread abode of the Sovereign of the Universe, 
"the city of our God," girdled about with suns, over whose " crys- 
tal battlements" float banners of light, within whose courts bow 
the redeemed in ceaseless adoration ; there was no sudden unseal- 
ing of my ear to the triumphal psalms of the blessed, to the grand 
resounding march of the stars. And, methought, no fair creatures 
of light came to me at once, to bear me upward, nor was my soul 
eager to depart, on swift, impatient wing, from the dear, though 
darkened scenes of earth, and the strong, though transient, asso- 
ciations of time ; but still lingered, hovering over that chamber of 
death, from which now arose a passionate burst of grief, the deep 
sobbing, and wild swell of the first storm of sorrow. Then, me- 
thought, my soul looked down upon its perishing companion in toil 
and suffering — the worn and resigned body ; marked the rigid 
limbs, the parted lips, the pale and sunken cheek, the shadowed 
eye, and all the mortality settled on the brow ; looked upon these, 
and felt no sorrow. But ah ! the tears and groans of those dear 
bereaved ones, had power to grieve it still, to " disturb that soul 
with pity," yet not such mournful pity as it had known on earth. 
A serene and comprehending faith in the wisdom and loving care 
of the Father, reconciled it to all things ; the years of this life, to 
the vision of its new existence, seemed shortened to brief days, and 
thus the time of release, for all who suffer and toil, near at hand. 
Yet with great yearnings it lingered there, its earthly love not 
destroyed, not weakened, but made stronger far, and purer, more 
like to the love of Heaven. 

Then, methought, a form of ineffable beauty, with a countenance 
of peace, wherein was human love breaking through celestial glory, 
came to me, and said, " Oh, daughter of earth, it is noAV thine to 
go forth, with the freedom of an immortal, among the infinite 
worlds ; to range at will through the vast domains of the wide and 
wondrous creation ; to track the shining paths of beneficent power, 
leading on from beauty to beauty, and glory to glory, through the 
grand and measureless universe of God. Shall we visit those fair 
worlds, those radiant stars, thou seest shining afar in the clear 
depths of air ? — they, who have known no fall, and on whom the 



340 SARA J. LirriNCOTT. 

Father's approving smile rests Avitli a perpetual warmth ami 
serenity ; Avhose inhabitants dwell in love, and worship, and con- 
tent ; where there is neither death nor oppression, suifcring nor 
sin; no spoiler, and none 'to make afraid;' none who slay; none 
who starve ; none who flee from their brothers, and call on God in 
secret places. 

" There also the hiAvs of beauty and harmony subdue and rule 
the elements, so that there are no harsh frosts, nor fierce heat, 
neither earthquake nor whelming flood ; no storms, to vex the 
heavens, nor to desolate the earth ; whose bloom is glad in the 
morning sun, and beautiful in the starlight. There, over hill and 
plain, angels have Avritten holy music in flowers ; there, summer 
streams chime down the mountain side, and winds play among the 
trees with the sound of anthems. 

" Over those worlds divine beings oft walk, as once they walked 
in the Eden of thy earth, ere man sinned, and, covering Ifis face, 
went out from the presence of God. Wilt^ thou go thither ? Or 
wouldst thou ascend the steps of morning light, to the Divine 
courts, thence to go forth on some errand of good, or enter on 
some office of love, thy portion of that labour which is worship ?" 

Then it seemed that I made no answer, save to point downward 
to those beloved ones, who still sat in darkness, and would not bo 
comforted. Then the angel smiled, and said, — " It is Avell; remain 
thou with these through their day of time ; be near them, and con- 
sole them always ; go before them, leading their way down the dark 
valley ; welcome them through the immortal gates, for to the holy 
ministration thou hast chosen wert thou appointed." 

When the cold light of dawn broke the sleep Avhich brought this 
heavenly vision, it was as the coming of night, and not of morning. 



EXTRACT FROM A LETTER. 

I AM reminded of an incident, or rather the incident of yester- 
day — an accidental meeting with the poet Longfellow. 



SARA J. LIPriNCOTT. 341 

Aside from mere cmnosity, of which I suppose I have my woman's 
share, I have always wished to look on the flesh and blood emljodi- 
ment of that rare genius, of that mind stored with the wealth of 
many literatures, the lore of many lands, — for in Longfellow it is 
the scholar as well as the poet that we reverence. The first glance 
satisfied me of one happy circumstance — that the life and health 
which throbbed and glowed through this poet's verse had their 
natural correspondences in the physical. lie appears perfectly 
healthful and vigorous — is rather English in person. His head is 
simply full, well-rounded, and even, not severe or massive in cha- 
racter. The first glance of his genial eyes, which seem to have 
gathered up sunshine through all the summers they have known, 
and the first tones of his cordial voice, show one that he has not 
impoverished his own nature in so generously endowing the crea- 
tions of his genius — has not drained his heart of the wine of life, 
to fill high the beaker of his song. 

Mr. Longfellow docs not look poetical, as Keats looked poetical, 
perhaps ; but, as Hood says of Gray's precocious youth, who used 
to get up early 

" To meet the sua upon the upland lawn" — • 

^' he died young." But, what is better, our poet looks tvell, for, 
after all, health is the best, most happy and glorious thing in the 
world. On m^ Parnassus, there should be no half-demented, long- 
haired, ill-dressed bards, lean and pale, subject to sudden attacks 
of poetic frenzy — sitting on damp clouds, and harping to the winds ; 
but they should be a hearty, manly, vigorous set of inspired gentle- 
men, erect and broad-chested, with features more on the robust 
than the romantic style — writing in snug studies, or fine, large 
libraries, surrounded by beauty, elegance, and comfort — receiving 
inspiration quietly and at regular hours, after a hot breakfast, the 
morning paper, and a cigar — given to hospitality and great din- 
ners — driving their own bays, and treating their excellent wives to 
a box at the opera, a season at Newport, a trip to the Falls, or a 
winter in Rome. 

The comforts of life have been long enough monopolized by 
thrifty traiesmen — "men in the coal and cattle line" — and good 



342 SARA J. LIPPING OTT 

living bj bishops and aldermen. It is the divine right of genius 
to be well kept and cared for by the world, which too often " enter- 
tains the angel unaware," on thin soups and sour wines, or, at the 
best, on unsubstantial 'puff-paste. 

I heard yesterday that Fredrika Bremer liad really arrived in 
New York. I hope that it is so. She has hosts of admirers all 
over our country, and is actually loved as few authors arc loved, 
Avith a simple, cordial, liome affection — for she is especially a writer 
for the fireside, the family circle, and thus addresses herself to the 
affections of a people whose purest joys and deepest interests centre 
in domestic life. America will take to her heart this child of genius 
and of nature — her home shall be by every hearth in our land, which 
has been made a dearer and a brighter place by her poetry, her 
romance, and her genial humour. She will be welcomed joyfully 
by every nature which has profited by her pure teachings, and 
received her revelations — by every spirit which has been borne 
upward by her aspirations, or softened by the spring breath, the 
soft warmth and light of her love. 

To n'oniaii has the Swedish novelist spoken, and by woman must 
she be welcomed and honoured here ; but to the vwn. of America 
comes one Avhose very name should cause the blood to leap along 
their veins — he, the heart's brother of freemen all over the world 
— the patriot, prophet, and soldier, the hero of the age — Kossuth 
the Hungarian ! 

How will he be received here ? How will the deep, intense, yet 
mournful sympathy, the soul-felt admiration, the generous homage 
of the country, find expression ? Not in parades and dinners, and 
public speeches, for Heaven's sake ! 

Would you feast and fete a man on whose single heart is laid 
the dead, crushing weight of a nation's sorrow — about whose spirit 
a nation's despair makes deep, perpetual night ? 

I knoAV not how my countrymen will meet this glorious exile; 
but were I a young man, with all the early love and fresh enthu- 
siasm for liberty and heroism, I Avould bow reverentl}^, and silently 
kiss his hand. Were I a pure and tried statesman, an honest 
patriot, I would fold him to my breast. Were I an old veteran, 



SARA J. LIPPING OTT. y43 

with the fire of freedom yet warming the veins whose young blood 
once flowed in her cause, I should Avish to look on Kossuth and die. 
AVho can say this man has lived in vain ? Though it was not 
his to strike the shackles from his beloved land, till she should 
stand free and mighty before Heaven, has he not struggled and 
suffered for her ? Has he not spoken hallowed and immortal 
Avords — words which have gone forth to the nations, a ^lowcr and a 
prophecy, which shall sound on and on, long after his troubled life 
is past — on and on, till their work is accomplished in great deeds 
— and the deeds become history, to be read by free men Avith 
quickened breath, and eyes that lighten Avith exultation ? And it 
is a great thing that Europe, darkened by superstition and crushed 
by despotism, has known another hero — a race of heroes, I might 
say, for the Hungarian uprising has been a startling and terrific 
spectacle for kings and emperors. And "the end is not yet." 
There must be a sure, a terrible retribution for the oppressors — a 
yet more fearful finale to this world-witnessed tragedy. "While the 
heavens endure, let us hold on to the faith that the right shall 
prevail against the wrong, when the last long struggle shall come, 
that the soul of freedom is imperishable, and shall triumph over all 
oppressions on the face of the whole earth. 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 



Anne Charlotte Lynch was bora in Bennington, Vermont. 

Her father belonged to the gallant band of " United Irishmen/' who 
so vainly attempted in 1798 to achieve the independence of the '' Emerald 
Isle." At the age of sixteen, against the protests, and even commands 
of his father, he joined the rebels, and, with many others, was soon made 
prisoner. During a gloomy imprisonment of four years, he received advan- 
tageous offers of liberty and a commission in the army, if he would take 
the oath of allegiance. These offers he boldly spurned, and at the age of 
twenty, with Emmet, McNeven, and other illustrious exiles, came to the 
United States. He married a daughter of Colonel Gray, and finally died 
in Cuba, where he had gone in search of health. 

On the mother's side, also. Miss Lynch has patriot blood in her veins. 
Her grandfather, Lieutenant-Colonel Gray, of the 6th Regiment of the 
Connecticut Line, received his first commission in January, 1776. He 
was appointed Major in 1777, and Lieutenant-Colonel in 1778, which 
rank he held till the close of the war. He served in the army of the 
Revolution during the whole period of seven years, and retired at the 
close of the war with a constitution so broken down by the fatigues and 
hardships he had undergone, that he was never able to resume the duties 
of his profession, and he died, after a few years, of a lingering disease, 
contracted in the service, leaving his family entirely destitute. The 
widow of Colonel Gray petitioned Congress several times ineffectually for 
relief. The petition was renewed by her daughter, Mrs. Lynch, in 1850, 
and, through the tact and persuasive eloquence of the grand-daughter, 
finally received a favourable hearing, even amid the exciting scenes of the 
Compromise Congress. 

After finishing her education, which was at a female seminary of some 
celebrity in Albany, Miss Lynch lived for a time in Providence, Rhode 
Island, There she published, in 1841, a volume entitled the "Rhode 

(344) 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 345 

Island Book/' consistiog of selections of prose and verse from the writers 
of that State, and including several pieces of her own. She subsequently 
spent some time in Philadelphia, where her poetical abilities attracted 
much attention, and gained for her the friendship and encouragement of 
many persons of distinction ; among others, of Fanny Kemble, then in 
the zenith of her popularity. Several of her poems were contributed to 
the " Gift" in 1845, also a long chapter in prose called " Leaves from the 
Diary of a Recluse." 

For the last eight or nine years she has lived in the city of New York. 
In this period she has contributed to the current literature of the day, both 
in prose and verse. A collection of her poems was published in 1818, in 
a small quarto, elegantly illustrated with original designs by Huntington, 
Cheney, Darley, Durand, Rothermel, Rossiter, Cushman, Brown, and 
Winner. 

The combination of the social element with the pursuits of literature 
and art, is a problem to which Miss Lynch has given a practical solution, 
and by which she has gained her chief celebrity. She has for many years 
opened her house on every Saturday evening to ladies and gentlemen of 
her acquaintance, connected with literature or the fine arts. Men and 
women of genius here meet, very much as merchants meet on 'Change, 
without ceremony, and for the exchange of thought. They pass together 
two hours in conversation, music, song, sometimes recitation, and disperse 
without eating or drinking, nothing in the shape of material refreshment 
being ever offered. At no place of concourse, it is said, is one so sure to 
see the leading celebrities of the town. I give two sketches of these 
soirees, the first from a writer — evidently a woman — in Neal's Glazette, 
the second from the pen of Miss Sedgwick : 

" At her brilliant Saturday evening reunions one may see all wli'o are 
in any way distinguished for scientific, artistic, or literary attainments, 
mingled with a band of fine appreciating spirits, who are content with that 
power of appreciation, and whose social position shows at once the high 
station which Miss Lynch has won by her merits as a woman and a 
scholar. 

" One of these same reunions would be the realization of many a school- 
girl's dream of happiness. We can almost see the young neophyte of 
authorland nestled in some sheltering recess, or shrouded by benevolent 
drapery, and gazing with wonder and admiration on those whose words 
have long been the companions of her solitary hours. 

"'Can that really be Mrs. Osgood?' she would exclaim, as a light 
figure glided before hetf retireinent. 

" ' Is that truly Mrs. Oakes Smith on the sofa beside Mrs. Hewitt ? 

Grace Greenwood ! how I have longed to see her, and Darley, Willis, 

Bayard Taylor, ah ! me,' and the sweet eyes would grow weary with 

watching the bright constellation, and the little hands clasp each other 

44 



346 ANNE C. LYNCH. 

close — and more closely still, as she tried to realize that those whom she 
had long loved were in truth before her. 

" Then gliding through their midst, calmly, almost proudly in her 
serene repose, is the hostess herself. Her wavy hair, gathered in a 
braided coronet, her mild, blue eyes serenely smiling, and at once thoughts 
of Miss Barret's Lady Geraldine come to the mind of the gazer, and these 
words to her parted lips — 

" For her eyes alone smiled constantly ; her lips had serious sweetness, 
And her front was calm — the dimple rarely rippled on her cheek ; 
Eut her deep blue eyes smiled constantly, as if they had by fitness 
The secret of a happy dream she did not care to speak." 

" There is a warm greeting and kind word for all, and even the little 
trembler in the window curtain does not start as she kindly addresses 
her." 

The next extract is from Miss Sedgwick, written in the character of a 
gentleman on a visit to New York. 

'' From Mallark's, I passed to the drawing-room of Miss Lynch. It 
was her reception evening. I was admitted to a rather dimly lighted hall 
by a little portress, some ten or twelve years old, who led mo to a small 
apartment to deposit my hat and cloak. There was no lighted staircase, 
no train attendant, none of the common flourish at city parties. ' Up 
stairs, if you please, sir — front room for the ladies — back for the gentle- 
men ;' no indication of an overturn or commotion in the domestic world ; 
no cross father, worried mother, or scolded servants behind the scenes — 
not even a faint resemblance to the eating, worrying, and tossing of ' the 
house that Jack built.' The locomotive was evidently not off the track; 
the spheres moved harmoniously. To my surprise, when I entered, I 
found two fair-sized drawing-rooms filled with guests, in a high state of 
social enjoyment. There was music, dancing, recitation, and conversation. 
I met an intimate friend there, and availing myself of the common privilege 
of a stranger in town I inquired out the company. There were artists in 
every department — painting, poetry, sculpture, and music. There 1 saw 
for the first time that impersonation of genius, Ole Bull. Even the his- 
trionic art asserted its right to social equality there in the person of one 
of its honourable professors. You may think that my hostess, for one so 
young and so very fair, opened her doors too wide. Perhaps so, for though 
I detest the duenna system and believe that the unguarded freedom per- 
mitted to our young ladies far safer as well as more agreeable, yet I would 
rather have seen the mother of Miss Lynch present. Certainly no one 
ever needed an aegis less than my lovely hostess. She has that quiet 
delicacy and dignity of manners that is as a ' glittering angel' to exorcise 
every evil spirit that should venture to approach her. How, without for- 
tune or fashion, she has achieved her position in your city, where every- 
thing goes under favour of these divinities, I am sure I cannot tell. To 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 347 

be sure, she has that aristocracy which supersedes all others — that to 
which prince and peasant instinctively bow — and though unknown in the 
fashionable world, you would as soon confound the exquisite work of a 
G-reek sculptor with the wax figures of an itinerant showman, as degrade 
her to the level of a conventional belle. 

"Yet she does not open her house as a temple to worshippers of whom 
she is the divinity, but apparently simply to afford her acquaintances the 
hospitality of a place of social meeting. She retires behind her guests, 
and seems to desire to be the least observed of all observers. 

"I had supposed that war might as well be carried on without its 
munitions, officers as well live without their salaries, children as well go 
to bed without their suppers, as a party to go off without its material 
entertainment. But here was the song without the supper, not even those 
poor shadows of refreshments, cakes and lemonade. Here was a young 
woman without ' position' — to use the cant phrase — without any relations 
to the fashionable world, filling her rooms weekly with choice spirits, who 
came without any extraordinary expense of dress, who enjoyed high rational 
pleasures for two or three hours, and retired so early as to make no drafts 
on the health or spirits of the next day. I communicated my perplexity 
to a foreign acquaintance whom I met at Mrs. Booth's. 

" ' Why,' said he, ' your fair friend has hit upon a favourite form of 
society common in the highest civilization. Miss Lynch's soirees are 
Parisian — only not in Paris. Not in the world, with the exception of the 
United States, could a beautiful young woman take the responsibility 
unmatronized of such a 'reception.' " 

FREDRIKA BREMER. 

When it was announced, a few months since, that Fredrika 
Bremer had landed upon our shores, the intelligence was received 
by the thousands who have read her works, with an interest that 
admiration of literary talent or genius alone could never have 
inspired. More than almost any other writer. Miss Bremer seems 
to have become a personal friend to every reader, and the cause 
of this is to be found in a far deeper source than mere admiration 
for the novelty and vividness of her narratives, her quiet pictures 
of domestic life, or her strong delineations of the workings of 
human passion. Her large and sympathetic heart is attuned to 
such harmony with humanity, or rather she so expresses this beau- 
tiful harmony of her own soul with God, with nature, and with 
humanity, that the human heart that has suffered or enjoyed, 



348 ANNE C. LYNCH. 

vibrates and responds like a liarp-string to the master-hand. She 
has somewhere said, " Hereafter, when I no more belong to earth, 
I should love to return to it as a spirit, and impart to man the 
deepest of that which I have suffered and enjoyed, lived and loved. 
And no one need fear me; — should I come in the midnight 
hour to a striving and unquiet spirit, it would be only to make it 
more quiet, its night-lamp burn more brightly, and myself its friend 
and sister." Although she still belongs to earth, this aspiration has 
been satisfied. Even here, without having crossed the mysterious 
bourn, she has revealed to us great depths of suffering and joy, of 
life and love, and to many troubled hearts she has come in their 
midnight hours, a friend, a sister, a consoler. It is no wonder, 
then, that homes and hearts have opened to her, and that welcome 
and gratitude await her in every town and village of our country. 

When Miss Bremer's works were first introduced to us a few 
years ago, the brilliant narrations of Scott had been succeeded by 
the passionate and romantic creations of Bulwer, and our literature 
was flooded with inundations from the voluptuous and sensational 
school of France, which deposited its debris and diffused its malaria 
wherever its impure waters subsided. At this period the writings 
of Fredrika Bremer came upon us, suddenly and beautiful as 
summer comes in her northern clime, as pure and sparkling as its 
mountain streams, as fresh and invigorating as its mountain air. 

As Avorks of art, or in a literary point of view, these novels have 
doubtless their faults. But those who have been elevated by their 
ennobling spirit, who have drunk at their clear, cool fountains, and 
felt their strengthening and life-giving influence, who have dwelt 
with her lovely characters in their happy homes, and participated 
in their joys and sorrows, would find it as impossible to turn upon 
them the cold eye of the critic, as to analyze the sunshine and the 
landscape that delight the eye, or to judge the features of a beloved 
friend by the strictest rules of beauty or of art. The office of the 
critic has come to be in literature what that of the surgeon is in 
the actual world. With perfect development, beauty, and harmony, 
he has nothing to do. He has eyes only for deformities and faults, 
and wherever they are to be found, he applies his merciless scalpel, 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 349 

with a firm hand and an unrelenting heart. But the critic who 
judges by rules of art alone, does not give us the highest truth any 
more than the chemist, who, while he shows us how to analyze the 
diamond and to resolve it to its original elements, forgets to place 
it before us flashing in the sunlight ; or the botanist who, in dis- 
secting the flower, leaves its beauty to pass unnoticed, and its per- 
fume to escape. Mere criticism is the judgment of the intellect 
alone ; but the highest and truest judgment is that where the heart 
also has a voice, and an object seen through the one or the other 
medium, intellect or heart, is like those transparencies which in one 
light represent the dreary desolation of a winter landscape, and in 
the other, all the luxuriance and beauty of summer. 

The age in which we live is one of scepticism, of analysis, and 
of transition. Religion, government, society, are all in turn inves- 
tigated by its indomitable spirit of inquiry. All great questions 
relating to humanity, its reform, its progress, and its final destiny, 
are agitated to a degree not known before at any period of the 
world's history. The conservative and destructive principles are 
at war, and there are moments when those of the firmest faith seem 
to doubt what the final issue of the contest may be. The litera- 
ture, as could not fail to be the case, takes its tone from the spirit 
of the age, and no department of literature has more direct bearing 
upon the popular mind than that of fiction. He who writes the 
songs and romances of a people may well leave to others to make 
their laws. Not, indeed, those lighter romances, intended only to 
interest or amuse the fancy, but those which embody some deep 
sentiment, or some vital principle of society or of religion. Truths 
and principles thus inculcated or diffused, have their most direct 
influence upon the youthful mind, and, like the impressions made 
upon the rock in its transition state, they harden and remain. 

As an instance of the extent of this influence of fiction, we may 
refer to the writings of that woman, who, possessing the most ex- 
traordinary combination of masculine and feminine qualities under 
the name of George Sand, for the last few years has taken the 
first rank among the writers of her native language, and from that 
eminence has exercised such incalculable influence, not only over 



350 ANNE C. LYNCH. 

her own but all other countries. George Sand and Fredrika Bre- 
mer stand at the head of two widely diiFerent classes of fictitious 
writing, each having other and higher objects than to amuse. 
Through the writings of both there is a deep and powerful under- 
current, to which the story is but the sparkle on the surface. Both 
discuss great questions of social reform, the laws of marriage, and 
the nature of love. Both enter the temple of humanity — but the 
one to overthrow its altars, and to shatter its cherished images — 
the other to render them more firm and steadfast — to burn incense 
on the shrines, and adorn them with garlands of immortal flowers. 
The genius of the one is the flaming torch of the incendiary, that 
carries destruction and desolation in its course — that of the other 
is the fragrant lamp, that illumines the darkness, and dispels, by 
its steady and benignant beams, the gathering and mysterious 
gloom. The course of the one has been like that of the furious 
tempest of the tropical regions, that uproots the old landmarks, 
floods the gentle streams till they overflow their channels, and 
sweep away banks, bridges, and barriers that oppose their course; 
that of the other, like the evening dews and the summer showers, 
that sink softly into the bosom of the earth, refreshing, gladdening, 
and fertilizing. 

The institution of marriage, the root from which society springs, 
the groundwork upon which it stands, George Sand, with all the 
force of her genius and eloquence, seeks to degrade and to destroy ; 
while Fredrika Bremer would ennoble, not the institution of mar- 
riage only, but she would exalt it into that deeper and holier spirit- 
ual union, of which the actual marriage is but the symbol. Love, 
that most divine of all our sentiments, the bloom and perfume of 
the tree of Life, the sun that lights and gladdens the night of 
existence, the one presents to us as burning with all the voluptuous 
ardour of the senses, the other, as glowing with the sacred fire of 
the impassioned soul. 

It seems to be a law of Providence, that good and evil should 
ever co-exist, both in the outer and inner world ; that wherever 
poisons abound, the antidotes are also to be found ; and the contem- 
poraneous appearance of the two leading minds we have been con- 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 351 

trastino-, is an instance of the verification of this law in the intel- 
lectual or moral world. Some one has truly said, that " Avhere 
nothing great is to be done, the existence of great men is impossi- 
ble." Goodness is only one form of greatness, and in opposing 
the influence of the materializing and disorganizing school of French 
romances, there was a great good to be attained ; and by Miss 
Bremer, and the class of writers of Avhich she stands at the head, 
it has been in a measure accomplished ; for there is another law 
of Providence which secures the final triumph of good over evil, 
and renders the contest not doubtful in the end, although it may 
be of long duration. 

Besides the French school of romance writers, there is another, 
to which the works of Miss Bremer offer an equally salutary anti- 
dote. We refer to those who, Avitli contempt in their hearts, and 
bitterness and sarcasm on their lips, go through the world like 
Mephistopheles, only to sneer at the weaknesses of humanity, to 
magnify its errors, and to question or despise its virtues, and who, 
like certain birds of prey, seem to be attracted only by that which 
is in its nature offensive. The mischief of such works is, that they 
lower the standard of human excellence, they unsettle our faith in 
human nature, and they engender a sceptical and contemptuous 
spirit, that as fatally extinguishes the higher virtues and aspira- 
tions, as fire-damp extinguishes the miner's lamp. Goethe has 
somewhere said that if we Avould make men better, Ave must treat 
them as if they were better than they are ; if we take them at 
their actual level we make them worse ; much more then do we 
render them worse when we put them below their actual level, pre- 
serving, though caricaturing the likeness. 

The characters Miss Bremer has drawn, while they are free from 
this charge, do not on the other hand fall into the opposite error of 
being too favourably depicted. They represent human nature as 
it often is, as it is always capable of being, refined, elevated, and 
noble. The home affections that she so vividly portrays, though 
originating in the domestic circle, radiate from that centre until 
tliey encompass all that live and suffer, genial as the sun, and 
embracing as the atmosphere ; and, like the sun and air in the 



352 ANNE C. LYNCH. 

outward world, tliey call forth tlie verdure and bloom of the inner 
life in all those whom they thus enfold. 

It may be objected that we assign too great an influence, too 
prominent a position, to. these creations of the imagination, pre- 
sented to us on the pages of fiction. But fiction, in its action on 
the mind, has all the efiect of history ; it has even an advantage 
over history. Since the one gives but the outward and apparent 
life, while the other enters the secret recesses of the heart, unveils 
the hidden springs of motive and of action, and lays open to our 
view, what no history and no confessions ever do, the secret work- 
ings of the human soul, that most mysterious and complicated of 
all the works of God. Into these " beings of the mind," the Avriter 
of fiction, like the sculptor of old, breathes life, thought, and immor- 
tality, and they become to us positive existences. Lear and Cor- 
delia, Othello and Desdcmona, Ivanhoe and Rebecca, are as much 
realities as if they had dwelt upon the earth, and their lives had 
come down to us beside those of the heroes and heroines of history. 
So it is with the characters Miss Bremer has drawn. Wo are as 
familiar Avith Bear and his little wife, as if we had dwelt with them 
at their cottage-home of Rosenvik. We shrink before the iron will 
and the imperious commands of 3Ia cliere, mere, and shudder to 
encounter the dark form and the lowering glance of the fierce 
Bruno. 

If, then, fiction in its effects is to be regarded as possessing equal 
power with history, it becomes a more important feature, not only 
in literature, but in morals, and should occupy a higher place than 
has been assigned to it, and those who people the world with these 
airy yet actual beings, and present to us in them ideals to contem- 
plate and to imitate, should be regarded as the benefactors of men. 
And so, indeed, it has been with her who is the subject of this brief 
sketch. Her works have gone abroad on their message of peace 
and love over the civilized world, and her fame has resounded far 
and w^ide, till its echo returned to her native land. Fame, as it is 
generally understood, however, is but a poor expression of the 
relation that exists between Miss Bremer and her world of readers ; 
it is but the outward fact of the deep, spiritual relation she bears 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 353 

to them all ; for each one receives from her some direct rays, as 
the wavelets of the lake, lying in the light of the moon, receive 
each some beam of her silver light. 

As to Miss Bremer's future, we do not consider her course by 
any means as ended. We know that in her works, as in her life, 
she aspires to that ascending metamorphosis, without which the 
normal development of life is not accomplished. Wc know that 
she aspires to put the romance of individual life in closer connexion 
with the great romance of humanity, and that her present visit to 
the New World is connected with this view. We know that through 
the impressions here received, she hopes to realize and to give 
expression to ardent hopes and long-cherished visions. We know 
that "the light of her life's day, like that of the morning, will be 
an ascending one, and that whether its beam shine through mist or 
through clear air, that the day will increase — the life will brighten." 



45 



ARY E. HEWITT. 



Mrs. Hewitt's maiden name was Mary Elizabeth Moore. She was 
born in Maiden, Massachusetts. Her father, an independent New Eng- 
land farmer, a man of good education, and fine personal appearance, died 
when Mary was but three years of age, leaving a young wife and four 
children. The family removed the following year to Boston, where the 
subject of this sketch remained until her marriage with Mr. James L. 
Hewitt, an extensive publisher of music in New York city. In this latter 
place Mrs. Hewitt has resided ever since. 

By her maternal grandfather she is descended from an old family by 
the name of Collins, in Kent, England. ''Thomas Collins, lord of the 
manor, — son of John, son of Alexander, son of Alexander," was first per- 
mitted to bear a coat of arms, and to figure in heraldry with "gules," and 
"grifiins," and "martelets azure." By her maternal grandmother, how- 
ever, she had a descent still more honourable, being a lineal descendant 
of the good old puritan, Roger Williams. 

As a writer, Mrs. Hewitt is known almost exclusively by her poetry. 
A volume of her poems published in Boston in 1846, called "The Songs 
of our Land," was very well received, both in England and America. 
Edgar A. Poe published three separate critiques on these poems. After 
a very learned show of "trochees" and "iambuses," he declares that 
" they are generally, rather than particularly, commendable — abounding 
in forcible passages," and that " many of them would do credit to any 
poet in the land." He pronounces the "Hercules and Omphale" to be 
"worthy of all praise," and "that rara avis in our literature, a well- 
constructed sonnet." 

Mrs. Hewitt's prose writings, though not numerous, have been such as 
to justify the expectation raised by her poems. She has contributed several 
excellent stories to the "Memorial," the "Odd Fellows' Offering,'^ and 
the " Gem of the Western World," and some sketches for the " Southern 

(354) 



MARY E. HEWITT. 355 

Literary Messenger." She is at present engaged upon a prose volume, to 
be entitled " The Heroines of History." 

The following extract is from an Irish legend, the events of whicli are 
supposed to have occurred during the times of the Druidical superstition. 



A LEGEND OF IRELAND. 

The business of state was over for the day. Judgments had 
Deen awarded, the different records of the kingdom examined, and 
whatever material they afforded for national history had been care- 
fully entered in the great national record called the Psalter of 
Tara ; when a herald advanced and proclaimed to the assembly 
that a combat would take place on the morrow, between Conrigh, 
a celebrated chieftain, and Maon, a knight of the Red Branch. 
These warriors had each demanded the hand of the lady Brehilda, 
the king's ward, as the meed of their prowess in battle, and the 
lady was to be the reward of the successful competitor. But Bre- 
hilda had known Maon and loved him from her childhood, far away 
in her own home ; for he was the son of a neighbouring chieftain, 
and years ago he had gathered flowers for her upon the hills, and 
walked at her bridle rein, while her rough pony scrambled with 
her over the rocky passes. 

But her sire was dead^no son inherited his name and glory — 
his estate had passed away to a distant male relative ; for, by the 
law existing among the Irish, females of every degree were pre- 
cluded from the inheritance, and Brehilda was the ward of the 
nation's monarch. 

There was feasting that night in the palace of Tara, and a noble 
assemblage of the brave and beautiful of the land. In the banquet 
hall the bards sang the praises of heroes to the harp, while the 
chiefs feasted at the board and quaffed meadh from the corna — the 
trumpet in battle, and in peace the drinking cup — and in the 
lighted saloon the guests of the monarch danced the riyicead-fadha^ 
the national dance, to the music of the harp, the tabor, and the 
corobasnas — an instrument formed of two circular pieces of brass, 
strung together by a wire of the same metal and used for marking 
time — but the lady Brehilda sat alette in her bower, looking out 



356 • MARY E. HEAVITT. 

upon the moonlit scene, and thinking with a dread foreboding of 
the morrow, which might separate her for ever from the one she 
loved, and consign her to a hateful existence with Conrigh. 

The walls of the apartment were hung with tapestry representing 
the landing of Hcremon and Heber, and the contests of the Dano- 
nians with their INIilesian invaders. The floor was strewn with 
fresh rushes, and the few articles of furniture scattered throughout 
the room, were as rude in design and workmanship as the age to 
which they belonged. An embroidery frame was placed in one 
corner, and near it a small harp, such as was used by ladies of the 
time, rested against a low table. 

Without the tower lay the moonlit sward, the glittering river 
"winding away among the woody hills, the rude castle of the chief- 
tain, and the mud hovel of the peasant, where from the windows of 
each gleamed out the festal torch and the fire light. 

But the sound of mirth had ceased in the palace of Tara, and 
the lights had gone out one by one from the distant dwellings, and 
still Brehilda sat at the narrow window, communing with her own 
sad heart. She was very beautiful as she sat there in her grief, 
with her fair hair, that^ad escaped from its fillet, falling in ripples 
of gold over her green, embroidered kirtle almost to the border of 
the white garment beneath it. Her small hands clasped, rested 
upon her lap, and her full blue eyes were turned tearfully upward, 
as if she were invoking the One great Principle of the universe, 
whose worship the Druids taught, to strengthen the arm of her 
lover and save her from the fate she would rather die than meet. 
The moon was now slowly descending behind the distant hills, and 
all nature reposed in silence, Avhen the strings of a harp lightly 
touched, sounded from a grove not far off, and a full, manly voice 
sang the following words: 

Doubt not my steed — he bath breasted the water, 

When the torrent came, down from the hills in its might; 

And with white, flowing mane, deeply reddened in slaughter, 
He hath borne me in battle, nor shrank from the fight. 

Doubt not my lance — a young mountain scion, 
It grew 'mid the storm, rooted fast to the rock ; 



MARY E. HEWITT. 357 

Its point knows the sound of a breastplate of iron, 
And gladly it springs, like my steed, to the shock. 

Doubt not my arm in the combat will serve me — 

My bard sings the deeds of his chieftain, with pride ; 
And the strength of a legion to-morrow will nerve me 

To conquer in battle, and win thee my bride. 
Doubt not my heart, in its truth, here repeating 

That thou art its life-pulse — the throb of my breast — 
And never till death stops my bosom's swift beating, 

In the cold narrow house, will thy thought be at rest. 

Springing to her feet at the first sound of the voice, every fea- 
ture of her beautiful face lighted up with intense joy, she stood 
like a young pythoness filled with the oracle, and extended her 
arms toward a figure arrayed in the long, fringed colchal of a bard, 
that now emerged from the grove, and whom her heart told her 
truly could be no other than Maon. Casting back the hood from 
his face, he stood revealed in the waning moonlight, and raising 
his hand to his lips, then waving it upward in parting salutation to 
the maiden, he again entered the grove and disappeared ; and 
Brehilda, strengthened by the words of his song, and reassured by 
his presence, retired to her couch, and soon in sweet slumber forgot 
the cares that oppressed her heart. 

The morrow, like all dreaded to-morrows, dawned brightly. 
The combat was to take place early in the day, and the field had 
been prepared for the rivals and those who were to witness the 
contest. The thrones of the Irish monarch and the kings of the 
four provinces were arranged much in the same manner as in the 
hall of legislation, save that the King of Connaught had his place 
on the left of the King of Munster, while platforms or galleries 
were erected on either side for the accommodation of spectators. 

It is not to be supposed that a trial of arras in that remote time 
was conducted with the order and magnificence of the more modern 
tournament ; but still the field was not wanting in much of the 
material that served to make up the display of that after period. 
The seats around the arena were now filling to their utmost extent 
and capacity. There were nobles and knights, and esquires bearing 
the shields of their chiefs ; and to the several orders of bards assem- 



358 MARY E. HEWITT. 

bled for the convention of the states were assigned conspicuous 
places in the enclosure. Each king, robed in the colours appro- 
priate to royalty, occupied the throne prepared for him, seated 
beneath his own banner, and. in a gallery behind the throne of 
Ollamh sat Brehilda, arrayed like a noble Irish maiden, palo as 
sculptured marble, surrounded by the principal ladies of the 
monarch's court. 

At a loud blast of the coma the combatants entered the arena 
from opposite sides of the field. They were noble in appearance, 
well matched in size, and sat their chafing steeds as firmly as the 
Thessalian riders whose horsemanship gave birth to the fabled 
Centaurs. Each warrior was arrayed in the rude and defective 
armour of the time — the head covered with the head-piece of iron, 
which at that period had neither crest nor vizor. The right hand 
bore a lance, the left arm a buckler, while an iron maul, poAverful 
as the hammer of the northern Thunder God, hung pendent at 
each saddle-bow, for the battle-axe was then unknown in warfare. 
Eager for the conflict, at a signal from the herald they sprang to 
the encounter, and for a long time the victory seemed doubtful ; 
but the lance of Conrigh splintered against the shield of Maon, 
and each unslung the ponderous maul, and poising it aloft, again 
spurred to the contest. 

With hushed heart and dilated eyes Brehilda gazed upon the 
scene. A moment of intense bewilderment, and she sank in a 
death-like swoon upon the floor of the gallery, for Maon lay 
stunned upon the field, beneath his prostrate steed. The shout 
that hailed the victor was unheard by the maiden as they bore her 
from the throng, and placed her insensible form upon the couch in 
her tower. 

But the festival was over. The solemn feast in the temple of 
Yiachto had been partaken of — the great fire of Samhuin had been 
lighted, and the Deity invoked to bless their national counsels, and 
Conrigh had departed to his castle on the river Fionglasse, in the 
county of Kerry, where he dwelt in all the barbarism of feudal 
magnificence, bearing with him his bride, the wretched Brehilda. 

Neither the devotion of her lord, nor the splendour that sur- 



MARY E. HEWITT. 359 

rounded her, could console, or render the new-made wife contented 
with her lot. She envied the peasant maidens who milked the 
kine beyond her window, free to love where the heart prompted 
and to wed where they loved — and her daily prayer to Dhia, the 
great Creator of all things, was that her spirit might be permitted 
to enter the flowery fields, and dwell in the airy halls of Flathinnis, 
the Druidical heaven, with those beloved who had gone before. - 

The winter was ended, and the festival of Beil Tinne was at 
hand. All nature seemed to rejoice in the season of the returning 
sun, and Brehilda, to whom the brightness of spring brought no 
joy, wandered alone on the banks of the Fionglasse. The birds sang 
upward to the highest heaven, and the over-hanging trees waved 
their fresh green leaves to the rippling water. Brehilda seated her- 
self listlessly beside the stream, and anon the following song from 
her lips, in a subdued voice, sounded tunefully over the waters. 

They have parted for ever 

Our hearts' rosy chain, 
And bound me, all helpless, 

To a love I disdain. 
They have ruthless bereft us 

Of the fond hope of years, 
And given my young life 

To sorrow and tears. 

Yet my heart, Oh Beloved, 

To thy memory clings. 
As the bird o'er her nestling 

Folds closely her wings. 
The dark clouds may gather 

Aloft in the sky. 
And the tempest toss wildly 

The branches on high ; 

But faithful and fond. 

With her young 'neath her breast. 
Still fearlessly cleaveth 

The bird to her nest. 
And thus, though in peril, 

And secret it be, 
Oh ! Bird of my breast ! 

Clings my true heart to thee. 



360 MARY E. HEWITT. 

Scarcely was the song finished when a light skiff, made of hide 
stretched over a frame of wicker, propelled by a single oarsman, 
shot out from beyond a clump of alders, and swiftly approached 
the river's bank. Touching the earth lightly with his oar, the 
boatman leaped to land almost at the feet of Brehilda. He waa 
clad in the simple garb of a peasant, and Brehilda, alarmed at the 
act of the stranger, would have fled, but a motion of his hand 
restrained her, and the next moment she lay panting and sobbing 
on the bosom of Maon. 

Their interview was long, and passionate their communing, and 
at length the lovers parted. Maon again embarked on the Fion- 
glasse, and Brehilda returned to the castle. 

In those early days, when war and glory were the theme of 
song, acts of violence and bloodshed were frequent, and revenge 
followed fast upon wrong ; for the light of revelation had not yet 
dawned upon the world that knew no return for injury but retri- 
bution. 

It was the first of May, and the day of the festival of Beil 
Tinne. Fires were lighted, and sacrifices were off'ered on the 
most lofty eminences in every part of the kingdom to Beil, or the 
Sun. The Druids danced around their round towers the sacred 
dance of their profession, as was the custom of this priesthood 
during the religious festivals of the nation ; and the martial follow- 
ers of the chiefs joined in the Rinkey, or field-dance — a perform- 
ance not unlike the armed dance with which the Greek youth 
amused themselves at the siege of Troy — to the sound of the bag- 
pipes, upon the green-sward. 

A stranger bard feasted that night in the hall of Conrigh, with 
the guests and retainers of the chieftain. He wore the fruise of 
weft, which covered the feet, legs, and thighs, as far as the loins, 
striped with various colours, and fitting so closely as to discover 
every motion and muscle of the limbs ; and the cotaigh, or tunic 
of linen, dyed yellow, and ornamented with needle-work, reaching 
to the mid-thigh, and confined around the loins by an embroidered 
girdle. The sleeves of this garment were loose and long, and the 
bosom was cut round, leaving the neck and upper part of the 



MARY E. HEWITT. 361 

shoulders bare. His beard was long, and his hair flowed over his 
neck and shoulders in wavy luxuriance. Thus arrayed in the 
picturesque habit allowed to that order of men whose persons were 
held sacred everywhere throughout the kingdom, he was one of 
those noble specimens of manly beauty formed to awaken the 
interest and admiration of all beholders. 

Meadh foamed at the board — the bards sang "the days of other 
years," nor was the theme of love held unmeet for so joyous an 
occasion — the harp was passed round from hand to hand among 
the guests, each one contributing his portion of song to enliven 
the feast, and the unknown bard, in his turn taking the instru- 
ment, struck the chords loudly ; and while Brehilda, who was seated 
near her lord, listened, trembling and pale with apprehension lest 
the intruder should be discovered beneath the disguise which the 
eyes of love had already penetrated, he sang — 

The dove was the falcon's love, 

The dove with her tender breast; 
Ah ! weary the fatfe that gave 

The dove to the kite's vile nest! 
The moon from yon cloud to-night 

Looks down on the feast of shells ; 
Oh, marked she the falcon's flight 

For the home where his own dove dwells ? 

There's a veil o'er my harp's true strings. 

There's a cloud o'er the fair moon's breast; 
And the falcon, with outspread wings. 

Hangs o'er the kite's vile nest. 
The famishing birds of prey, 

Are hurrying through the night, 
But the dove with her falcon love 

Will have flown ere the morning light ! 

The feast flowed on, uninterrupted by aught but song; and at a 
late hour the revellers retired from the banquet to their apartments 
in the castle. 

It was long after midnight, when the sleepers were aroused from 

their slumbers by the sound of conflict in the hall below. Hastily 

dressed, and half armed, they rushed forth from their apartments 

to meet the swords of their unknown assailants. Wildly the contest 
46 



362 MARY E. HEWITT. 

raged, and everywhere was seen the strange bard, cnconraghig the 
intruders, until at length in the affray he encountered Conrigh, 
and casting off the false beard that disguised him, they stood face 
to face amid the combat — the husband and the lover of Brehilda. 
They fought with all the terrible hate that animated them, and 
Conrigh fell, pierced with many wounds, beneath the sword of his 
adversary. A brief moment, and Maon, bearing the insensible 
form of Brehilda, passed swiftly through the hall and out at the 
portal. Mounting a strong steed, while the assailants continued 
their work of blood, and placing her for whom he had wrought the 
night's sacrifice, before him, he fled with all speed toward the court 
of Conquovar Mac Nessa, King of Ulster. 

This wise and munificent king was a patron of the learned, and 
in his court the unfortunate and the proscribed found an asylum 
and a mediator. Morning dawned as Maon paused in his flight 
beside a running spring, and alighted with his unconscious burthen. 
He sprinkled her brow with the cool lymph, and filling the korn — 
the cup sacred to the deity of the earth and the waters, suspended 
from the overhanging branch of a tree — he raised the draught to 
her lips. Who can describe the rapture of Brehilda, on awaking 
from her long trance, to find herself supported by the arms of the 
lover of her girlhood, and to meet again his look of ardent affection. 




..^^■^ ^ . /€.=_<1 



ALICE B. NEAL. 



TliK biuiks ol' the JluJson seem (lestiued to bccoiuo classic ground. 
Not a few of our most distinguished writers, men and women, have either 
lout {\n'.\r genius to the celebration of its beauties, or have themselves 
drawn inspiration from its mountain breezes. The mime of Alice B. Neal 
is now to bo added to the list. Born in 1828, in tho city of Hudson, sho 
may have owed her early love for the beautiful to tho romantic scenery by 
which her childhood was surrounded. U" tliere be any truth in the theory 
of physical inlluences upon the muntal, we may iu like manner traco 
something of the enduring energy with which she has met her many trials 
to her subsequent dwelling upon the hardier soil of tho granite State. 
Iler education was (iiiisluul in New TTampsliire, where she gave early indi- 
cations of intellectual superiority. 

An apparently trivial incident of tho school-room led to a most romantic 
issue, and Oxed indeed her course in life. In a sportive hour, her school- 
mates challenged her to try her success before the world with some of 
those compositions which had so excited the admiration of th(^ srhool. 
The challenge was acccjptcd, and a tale was at once (l(!sp:itched to Joseph {). 
Njcal, who had then just established tho " Saturday Giazettc." It was 
entitled "The fJamc of Checkers," and signed Alice G. Leo. 

Mr. Neal was then in the prime of his days, and one of tlie acknowledged 
arbiters of tasto in literature. His decision as to the rejection or tho 
acceptance of the story was watched with eager eyes by tho merry young 
coterie. How those eyes must have sparkled to find in a subsequent 
Oazette, not only the tale published in full, but on a third prose contribu- 
tion, " Tho First Declaration," the following editorial comments : 

" Taking it for granted that our literary department for tho week will 
receive an attentive; perusal, we shall be mistaken — much mistaken, ladies 
— for to your peculiar appreciation of the b<!autiful and refined we appeal, 
particularly in the ])resciit instance — if the reader does not agree with us 

(303) 



364 ALICE B. NEAL. 

in our estimate of the merits of the charming original sketch, published 
in our present number, from the pen of Miss Alice (.1. Lee. 

" 'No offence to the general, or any man of quality,' as Cassio has it; 
but though second to none in our admiration of ' Fanny Forrester,' it 
would be injustice not to say, that ' The First Declaration' will compare, 
without injury, to any other production of the kind that has adorned of 
late our periodical literature. How it may affect others we cannot tell ; 
but it is to us like moonlight on the flowers when the weary day is done, 
or like music on the waters, to meet with a sketch so replete with play- 
fulness, yet so delicately marked with Coleridge's ' instinct of ladyhood.' 
There is genius, too, and originality, in its naivcid — a nice and feminine 
perception of the beautiful, with an ability to portray it, which cannot fail 
of its purpose whenever it is thus executed." 

The matter did not end here. The new author continued to contribute 
to the Gazette. Ji. correspondence ensued, which led to the entertainment 
on his part of a deep and warm regard. Discovering at length, accident- 
all}^ that " Alice Gr. Lee" was a fiction, and that the real lady was Miss 
Emily Bradley, now returned to her own home on the Hudson, he imme- 
diately sought her acquaintance, and in December, 1846, received her hand 
in marriage, and brought her to Philadelphia, which has been her home 
ever since. At his request, she resumed, and she still retains, the endeared 
name of " Alice," by which he had first known her. 

This union, so romantic in its origin, was doomed to a sad and speedy 
termination. In July, 1847, the hand of death left Mrs. Neal a widow, 
at the early age of nineteen. Experience shows, in the moral world if 
not in the physical, that the coarsest plants are not always the hardiest. 
This delicate flower, so tenderly fostered and so fragrantly blooming, be- 
neath the genial influences that surround the parterres of city life, now 
that it was exposed to the blast, seemed suddenly to resume the hardihood 
of its mountain birth. With a courage that might do honour to an expe- 
rienced matron, this widowed girl decided at once to assume the editorial 
duties of her deceased husband, and thus not only avoid eating the bread 
of dependence, but also win the dearer privilege of ministering to the 
comfort of her husband's now childless mother. At the death of Mr. Neal, 
the two ladies continued to live together, the younger gracefully acknow- 
ledging that the rich stores of experience, the varied reading, fine taste, 
and judicious counsels of her aged companion, have more than compen- 
sated for her own more active exertions. 

Her first literary effort, after her mournful bereavement, was to super- 
intend the publication of the third series of " Charcoal Sketches," by her 
late husband. She has since then, besides her weekly editorial labours in 
the Gazette, written several books for children, and contributed largely, 
both in prose and verse, to our leading Magazines. "Helen Morton," 
appeared in 1849 under the auspices of the Protestant Episcopal Sunday 



ALICE B. NEAL. 365 

School Union, and was well received. It has been followed by ''Pictures 
from the Bible/' and the continuations of "Helen Morton," called "Watch 
and Pray," and "In the World, but not of the World." She is at present 
engaged upon a series of juvenile books, for the Appletons. Four of them 
have already appeared : " No Such Word as Fail," " Patient Waiting no 
Loss," " Contentment Better than Wealth," " All's Not Gold that Glit- 
ters." Of her works of a different kind, the first that has assumed the 
book form is the " Gossips of Bivertown, or Lessons of Charity." Her 
other tales in Godey, Graham, and Sartain, would make, if collected, two 
or three volumes of the size of the " Gossips of Bivertown." 

Mrs. Neal is still one of our youngest writers, and what is of most 
favourable omen, shows in her writings constant signs of improvement. 
In the language of a contemporary critic, who writes on this subject con 
amore, and whose opinion we make our own : " Her poetry has more ma- 
turity than her prose ; for the gift of song comes to the bard, as to the 
bird, direct from Heaven. Polish and metrical correctness may be added 
to genuine poetry ; but it is doubtful whether the fount be not as pure 
and sparkling at its first gush, as when quietly flowing on in a deeper 
stream. Mrs. Neal's prose compositions are continually improving, and 
the knowledge, which, with her uncommon industry, she is constantly 
acquiring, will enlarge her sphere of thought and illustration; and better 
yet, the religious tenor of her writings shows that she is guided by prin- 
ciples which will strengthen her intellect, and make her, we trust, in after 
jj-ears, an ornament and blessing to our famed land." 



THE CHILD-LOVE. 

" He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All tilings both great and small; 
For the dear God who loveth us — 

He made and loveth all." — Colekidgb. 

" I AM sure you love me, little Miriam ?" 

"Love you? — oh, so dearly!" And, as if her childish words 
needed a stronger confirmation, she put her arms caressingly about 
his neck and laid her head upon his bosom. Her face was very 
lovely as she looked up to him in all the winning truthfulness of 
an affectionate heart. Large gray eyes, with lashes so long and 
deep as almost to give them a sorrowful expression at times, and a 
mouth now smiling, and so disclosing small pearly teeth, and then 
the crimson lips would meet in pouting fullness — 



366 ALICE B. NEAL. 

" As though a rose should shut, 
And be a bud again." 

So thought the student as he bent down to return the fond caress, 
and mingled his darker locks with the light floating cui-ls that were 
thrown back over his shoufder. 

"And will you always love me, Miriam?" 

" Oh, always !" 

" But when I am gone — for I may not be with you long ; and 
then, when you do not see me every day, and you have other 
friends who love you better, and can make you more beautiful 
presents?" 

She seemed to be pained, as if she understood the worldliness 
thus imputed to her, young as she was. 

"But why must you go ? and where w^ill you go ? Home ?" 

" Home ! Ah, no, my child ; I have not had a home these many 
years." 

And then they were both silent for a little while ; she pitying 
him because he had no home, and he dwelling on thoughts and 
recollections which the word had called up. The low brown farm- 
house where his boyish days were passed, with the mossy bank 
around the well ; the little garden at the entrance of the orchard ; 
the orchard itself, white with blossoms at this very season of the 
year. And then there was the brook, gurgling through the alder 
bushes, and reflecting the tall spires of the crimson cardinal, or 
the field lily, that sprung among the rich grass. He seemed once 
more to lie, an idle, careless boy, watching the clouds floating lazily 
overhead, while the summer insects sang around him, and the wind 
came gently to lift the hair from his sunburnt forehead. 

This brought a recollection of his mother's kiss. It always 
seemed to him like the summer wind, so quiet, so warm, so loving. 
Her kiss and blessing, as she bent over his pillow, and then she 
would kneel and pray so earnestly for her son, her only child. 
How unlike his father was that gentle woman ! He had wondered 
at that even when a boy. His stern, rigid parent, who rarely 
smiled, and made self-denial and never-ceasing labour his religion, 
as though he felt the cui^se of Cain ever upon his rugged fields. 



ALICE B. NEAL. ^ 367 

They were united only in one thing, their love for him, and the 
zealous prayer that he might be, like Samuel, called even in child- 
hood to the service of the Temple. So they had dedicated him ; 
and, Avhen he saw the grass springing upon their graves in the 
churchyard, and took a last look upon that humble home, now 
passed into other hands, he remembered this strong wish of the 
hearts that had loved him so, and were now mouldering to dust 
beneath his feet. 

"But where are you going?" said the child, who had been 
thinking of many other things, and had now returned to this new 
fear of parting. 

" Many, many hundred miles from this, Miriam, away from the 
busy city and its crowded streets. Far off to the still woods, where 
there are no church-bells, and even no Sabbaths. I am going to 
the poor Indians, to teach them where to look for the Great Spirit 
they worship, and to the settlers of those Western lands, ruder 
still, and in darker ignorance. They scarcely know there is a 
God." 

"But they have the sky there, and the sun; and who do they 
think made them and the little flowers in the grass ? They could 
not make the flowers !" 

" But they do not love the flowers and the sky as you do ; they 
are blind : ' Eyes have they, and they see not ; ears, but they do 
not hear.' So I am going to them with God's own word, that will 
speak more plainly to their hearts. Do you not think it will be a 
beautiful life" — and his sunken eyes glanced with strange enthusi- 
asm — " devoting every power of soul and body to those benighted 
people, forgetting this life and its comforts and pleasures in the 
thoughts of that which is to come ? — reaping the broad whitening 
harvest?" 

He forgot that he was speaking to a child. And yet she seemed 
to understand him, at least to feel that he was swayed by some 
noble emotion ; for she raised her head and listened eagerly, as if 
a new life of thought was opened to her. 

" And will you have a home there ?" 

" Nay, I shall never have a home on earth ; parents, wife, 



368 ALICE B. NEAL. 

children are not for nie. I go forth ^vith neither purse nor scrip, 
follo^Ying our Divine Master ; I shall not have where to lay my 
head. But his love constrains me ; he will not desert his servant." 
And his voice sank, as it were, to a tliought of prayer for the 
strength he Avould need in the arduous path he had chosen. 

"But you will be all alone and sick, and there will be no one to 
take care of you ; then perhaps you will die." The look of sad- 
ness we have spoken of came into the child's earnest eyes, as she 
laid her soft head against his cheek, and wondered why he should 
choose to go away from her. 

" \Ye will not talk of this any longer, little one. I have made 
you so sad and grave. I do not like that look on your face ; it is 
too womanly for such a' little maiden. You are too young to 
understand all these things, and you must not try to ; but you 
must love me, that is all I ask. See, there is your kitten, come to 
invite you away from me." 

It was Avitli a strong effort that he had shaken off the sombre 
mood into which he had fallen, and attempted to enter into her 
childish amusements once more. He was startled by the earnest, 
dreamy look that she still retained. As he had said, it was too 
womanly for that young fair face. 

She smiled again ; obedience to those she loved was the strong 
principle of her nature, for she had ever been governed by affec- 
tion. No one ever spoke a harsh word to Miriam, motherless 
Miriam Arnold, the light of her father's lonely life, and the pet 
of the neighbours, who looked out to catch a glimpse of her light 
figure as she bounded up the dark court like a flitting ray of sun- 
shine. It was a gloomy abode for such a bright young creature, 
or a stranger would have thought so. The house so old and cheer- 
less, far away from the gay shops and the beautiful women Avho 
frequent them. There was not even a green tree or an ivy wreath 
to refresh the eye, nothing but Miriam's little pot of mignonette 
upon the window-sill, fresh and fragrant like herself, and her bird, 
who sang above it with a carol as light-hearted as her own. The 
bird, the child, and the flowers, these were the light of that lonely 
house, since Miriam's mother had faded in its dreariness. And it 



ALICE B. NEAL. yfjy 

was home, too, even if the ohl servant, who moved with such a 
cautious tread among the dusty books of her master's study, was 
the only companionable creature, save the bird. How carefully 
she rubbed the dingy furniture, and mended the threadbare cur- 
tains, long since faded from their cheerful neatness ! It was, 
perhaps, this still seclusion that had given Miriam, with all her 
eager childish grace, thoughts above her years ; and, after her friend 
had gone, she put the kitten from her lap and leaned out of the 
window to watch for her father's return, musing, as she had never 
done before, how men could ever live without knowing they had a 
Father up in Heaven, and who else they could thank for taking 
care of them through the long dark night ? And then her friend 
— Paul, he had told her to call him, when he first came to read 
those strange Hebrew words to her father, a daily study of the 
ancient language of the Bible he reverenced so much — Paul was 
going away to tell them to love him. How very good he was I 
She should miss him a great deal though. Perhaps he would take 
her too. Oh, she had not thought of that before ! But, then, 
there was her father ! Ko, Paul must go alone. Poor Paul, Avith 
no one to love him but herself ! How gravely he had made her 
promise to love him, as if she had not always done so from that 
very first day when he had taken her upon his knee and talked to 
her as no one else could talk ! 

The young curate, for such he was, of a wealthy parish church, 
old and "lukewarm" because of its long prosperity, had gone to 
his daily duty of reading the evening service to a scattered con- 
gregation, half hidden in the high straight pews, that almost 
stifled their faint responses. He went with a heavy load upon his 
heart, for he was a stranger among them and to their sympathies. 
There was no poverty to call such as he to their homes ; the rector 
only was bidden to the rich man's feasts. He came and went to 
and from the gilded chancel, with scarce a smile of recognition 
from those to whom his rich voice had read the "comfortable 
words" of their Master and his. The Bible told him they were 
brethren, but his heart said they were utter strangers. It was this 
cold supineness that had first turned his thoughts to a more earnest, 
47 



370 ALICE B. NEAL, 

active life among men "ready to perish," Avhile his present minis- 
try Avas to those Avho were 'Miill and had need of nothing." And, 
at hist, after many a struggle and many a prayer, he had stead- 
fastly turned his face to a mission in the western wilds of his native 
land. 

In all that Avide, wide city, there was one only ohject his heart 
could cling to — the little child whose arms had circled him, whose 
kiss had comforted his loneliness. This was perhaps from his own 
reserve, for he had been solitary even from a boy. He had never 
attached his playmates to him, he could not seek for sympathy 
among strangers ; opening to them the sorrows of his heart, a 
gentle heart like the mother Avho had given him life : but he 
checked its longing sympathies with a pride inherited from his 
sterner parent, and turned to fasting and lonely vigils of prayer 
and meditation. Miriam was the frail golden link that bound him 
to active human sympathies. lie Avas attracted by her strange 
loveliness as she came, half pleadingly, half timidly, to prefer some 
request to her father, and since then she had been the prattling 
companion of many a lonely hour, Avlien the task Avas ended, and 
his teacher had gone forth to impart to other pupils the stores of 
his great learning. 

She Avas Avatching for him the next day at the entrance of the 
court, as he came sloAvly along, absorbed in one of those abstracted 
moods Avhich had now become habitual to liim. Her eyes bright- 
ened as she caught sight of his slender figure, and she ran to place 
her hand in his Avith the confidence of an habitual favourite. 
Something Avhieh pleased her very n\uch had evidontly occurred ; 
but Avlieu she Avas questioned, she only smiled, and said it Avas a 
great secret ; even papa Avas not to be told. Yet it Avas not 
naughty : Margery had said so. Every day after that, for a long 
time, he found the faithful little sentinel at her post ; and sometimes 
their Avalk Avas extended, and she Avould go Avith him into the busy 
street, clinging closer to her dear companion, and looking up Avith 
smiles into his face, if the croAvd jostled her, the embodiment of 
the spirit of faith. 

At last the secret Avas revealed. It Avas Avheu he came to tell 



ALICE B. NEAL 

licr tlmt ho was going, all was ready for I.is departure, and 1.," Irid 
but one farewell to ma,ke. He was later than u,s„ul, and she was 
watching for him with more eagerness than ever. She tripped 
demurely hy his side, looking so beautiful in her elean white dress, 
and her curls in such rich profusion flowing round her- .leli.-ato 
throat. lie could not bear to pain her happj heart hy th. s.-.d 
news of their parting, so he drew her gently to his boso.n for the 
last tune, while he waited for her father's return ; and they were 
all alone but the kitten purring in tlx, sun, and old Margery bus- 
tling in and out, intent cm household cares. They did not talk 
much, but now and then she would pass her hand caressingly over 
l)is fa,ec, or he would bend down and kiss her tenderly. \t last 
he said — 

" I am going, Miriam. This is the last time I shall sec you in 
many a day." 

"Going!" she said, echoing the word sorrowfully. 

"Yes, as T told you when the spring first came. To-morrow I 
shall bo on my way to the deep woods and the boundless prairies 
of the western land." 

He expected at least a burst of passionate sobs; but she only 
nestled closer to his heart, and twined her arm more tightly about 
his neck. 

After a little time, she slid from his knee, still sorrowful and 
came back to him holding a little picture. It was a miniature of 
herself, exceedingly lifelike, and it had the dreamy, serious gaze 
which he had first noticed when speaking of his mission. This 
was her innocent little secret. It had been painted by a poor 
artist, with more talent than friends, who had his home in the 
same dark court. He had thought her so beautiful, that he begged 
her to Sit to him, intending a surprise to her father, who, in his 
unostentatious way, had once been of service to his poorer neigh- 
bour. That very day she had brought it home, so she told Paul, 
and laid it in a book before him. 

"And he was pleased," said Paul, " an.l kissed you, and thought 
it was very like you, as I do ?" 

"I don't believe he liked it so very much. I don't think he 

4i? 



372 ALICE B. NEAL. 

likes pictures at all," answered the child. " He never looks at my 
sweet mother, with the blue dress and the rose in her hair. But 
he smiled, and told mo to give it to the person I loved best in the 
world." 

"And you gave it to Margery, perhaps?" Paul smiled at the 
thought of bestowing such a gem upon Margery's dark little 
kitchen. 

"No, I don't love her best, and that would not be right. I 
kept it for you, because there is no one but papa and you I ever 
dream about. Sometimes I have such lovely dreams, and think 
you are never going away. But you are, and you must take this, 
and keep it always. I'm sure you will, Paul." 

A tear, yes, a tear, fell upon the beautiful picture — so touched 
was he by the earnestness and sincerity of her affection, and the 
thought that he was so soon to leave her. 

Her father came, a mild, benevolent-looking man ; but, never- 
theless, with the air of one who had no strong hopes or desires. He 
was sorry to part with his favourite pupil, but blessed him in God's 
name; for he, too, had been "a minister about holy things," and 
knew the burning zeal which had filled the heart of the young 
devotee. 

The morrow came, and Miriam was restless and sad as the hour 
for their walk drew near, and there was no friend to join her. 
Many and many a day did she linger at their old trysting-place, 
her heart beating fast, if she saw in the distance a face or figure 
that might be his. But one day after another came and Avent, and 
he was not there. Then she found other friends, and Time was 
her consoler. 

Years, many years had passed, and the missionary sat at the 
door of his rude cabin, and leaned his weary head against the 
rough unhewn beams for support. He was far older, and had a 
dejected, sorrowful air that had deepened the lines upon his fore- 
head, though his dark clustering hair had not silvered, and his eyes 
still lighted with the fire of manly thought. Yet the fresh vigour 
of his youth was spent, and his heart was weary and athirst for 
closer sympathy than he had found among the rude dwellers of the 



ALICE B. NEAL. 373 

land. Their numbers had greatly increased since he first came 
among them, and the Indian haunts had retreated from before 
approaching civilization. They had prayed him to remain among 
them, t? visit their sick and bury their dead, and they were kind 
to him in their own way. They had built his cabin, and furnished 
it with their own rude manufactures, and brought him presents of 
game from the forest, and fruit from their thriving farms. But, 
now the zeal of his first consecration was spent, he saw little fruit 
of all his labours ; the wilderness had not yet blossomed as the 
rose. He longed for some one who could sympathize in his ardent 
desire to do good, and to encourage him to cast his " bread upon 
the waters." He covered his face with his hands and prayed, 
communing with the only intelligence that could read his heart, 
and then he looked around him and still sighed. 

Perhaps it was that he had seen the cheerful blaze from the fire- 
side of some of his people, as he came homewards, and stopped to 
speak some playful word with the urchins before the door; but, as 
he sighed, he wondered if he could have been happier had he not 
denied to his starving heart all human, household love. "Per- 
haps I have wronged my nature," he thought. "It may not be 
required of me to lead this lonely life." And then — he never 
Gould tell what brought the recollection so vividly before him at 
that moment — there came a yearning thought of the little Miriam 
of years ago — his child-friend. 

She must be a woman now, and beautiful and good. Perhaps 
she had already a home of her own, and her children about her. 
At any rate, she had forgotten him. If she had not, if she still 
remembered her childish promise to love him always — but no, he 
would not be so mad, so selfish, as to ask her to sacrifice her youth 
and beauty to his life of lonely privation. But he could not banish 
her from his mind, and he went in and unclasped the miniature he 
had not seen for many a day. It was a little faded now; but 
there were the earnest, serious look, and the soft curls, and the 
fond smile. How she had loved him ! and he could almost feel 
her arms about his neck and her heart beating close to his. It 
was the isolation of spirit as well as outward life which had impressed 



374 ALICE B. NEAL. 

these remembrances so forcibly upon him. Everything seemed as 
if yesterday. Again that yearning thought ; and even before a 
resolve, he had smothered a fear, and was pouring out to her, or 
what he felt to be her now, all that was in his heart. 

After the letter was gone, there were weeks of anxious suspense ; 
and then he began to wonder at his own madness and folly. Some- 
times he would try to calm himself with thinking that they had left 
their old home, and it would never reach Miriam ; and then he 
almost wished it would be so, for she would never learn his pre- 
sumption. But at last the answer came, when he had quite ceased 
to expect it ; and he knew only by the tumult of his emotions, as 
he broke the seal, how much he had perilled upon what would now 
be revealed. He did not think to glance at the signature to see 
if she was still unmarried, but, as one resolved to drain to the dregs 
a bitter cup, he tore open the sheet, allowing himself no hope. 

" Paul — dear Paul !" — he was so dizzy that he could scarcely see 
the words — "you will think me strange, unmaidenly, when I tell 
you that my pen trembles in my hand for very happiness. I have 
heard from you once more ! The dream of my youth, of many, 
many years, has at last been fulfilled ! I kneiv you had not for- 
gotten me ; and I have kept you ever in my mind, mingled with all 
that I counted good and noble. I have kept the promise which you 
recall, unconsciously, for I had forgotten it was ever required. I 
have 'loved you always,' Paul. 

" No doubt much of this has been wild imagination, nursed in the 
lonely life I have ever led. I mean the seclusion ; for we are still 
here as when you left us, except that my father is older and more 
feeble, and I have assumed Margery's household duties, for we are 
very poor. You have sought a portionless bride. But we will 
come to you, as you have asked, for we know you cannot leave 
your people, and your heart will grow strong again and be com- 
forted by my father's gentle counsels; and J will be your 'home.' 
I can remember asking you if you were going home. 

" Do not fear that I shall not be content. I am strong and 
well ; I have never been accustomed to luxuries ; and am I unwo- 



ALICE B. NEAL. 375 

manly in telling you how my very heart has gone out to you, at 
your first bidding ? I have never lost trace of your labours. I 
have seen what you have done for those scattered people. I read 
of the consecration of your little church ; and once I have seen one 
who had met you, and who toFd me of your fervour, and that you 
were wearing yourself out by your never-ceasing labour. He said 
your eyes were large and dark, though sunken, and that you looked 
too frail for so rude a life. You see it was not all imagination. 

" Yes, we will come. My father has said so with his blessing, 
and he will renew his youth living among the beautiful things of 
nature ; and I shall know you there face to face as I know you 
now in spirit, gentle, patient, unselfish." 

The promise was kept, strange as it may seem to those who walk 
ever in the beaten track of cold formalities. It was again evening 
on those broad prairie lands, and Paul Stanbridge waited the 
approaching twilight, pondering on the new revelation of life, the 
seals of which another day would open. He wondered if it were 
not a blessed dream, and then he turned to look once more at the 
few comforts he had recently gathered in his little cabin for her 
who was henceforth to be its mistress. She had always loved 
flowers. How fortunate that he had twined the prairie rose and 
the clematis over the misshapen walls of his dwelling ! and the 
smooth lawn-like slope to the river-side, how peaceful it all seemed 
as it slept in the sun's last rays ! 

Suddenly, he felt rather than saw an approach, and he turned to 
find two coming slowly towards him. No, no, it was a dream — 
they could not reach even the village before the morrow — and the 
strangers were alone, and coming as if they knew the foot-path. 

It was no dream ; one more glance, and he knew that venerable 
form ; an instant, and that noble woman was clasped in a welcoming 
embrace. There was no coldness, no formality in that greeting. 
She was all that he had dreamed and pictured ; she was much more 
than he had dared to hope ; and she had bound him for ever by her 
trustful confidence, her womanly devotion. So they were united 
for life or death. Her father blessed them as he had done before, 



376 ALICE B. NEAL. 

calling them by that holiest and dearest of titles, " man and wife,' 
and, for the first time in many years, the missionary had a home. 

You will wonder if there was no sad awaking when the romance 
of youthful girlhood had passed, and Miriam knew that the step 
was irrevocable. You would need no other answer than a glance 
at the peace and happiness which sprung up in that quiet dwelling, 
a light that was diffused among all his little flock ; for he had 
found the key to their hearts — his creed was no longer gloomy and 
morose, looking coldly on all their social joy. And every one loved 
Miriam, who became, young as she was, a guide and a friend to 
many beside her husband. 

But did she truly love him ? 

Her father, happy in his serene old age, did not doubt it, as he 
saw her place their first born, Paul, in his arms, and look up to 
him with the trusting confidence of old, mingled with a deeper, 
because wifelike, tenderness. 



CLARA MOORE. 



Mrs. Clara Moore is a native of Westfield, Massacliusetts, but has 
resided in Philadelphia since her marriage. Her maiden name was Jes- 
sup. She has distinguished herself as a writer both of prose and of poetry, 
but principally of the former. Her stories are natural in their incidents, 
gracefully written, and full of fine delineation of character. A vein of 
sentiment, which pervades most of her writings, renders them especial 
favourites with her sex. In describing the struggles of woman's heart, 
when actuated by the passion of love, she is peculiarly happy : indeed, 
few female authors in the United States excel her in this respect. Her 
story entitled "Emma Dudley's Secret" is an instance in point. This 
powerful tale has been republished in London with much success. "The 
Mother-in-Law" and "■ The Estranged Hearts," both prize tales, may 
be quoted as happy illustrations of her style. 

It is a high merit with Mrs. Moore, that she seeks her subjects in every- 
day life, instead of dealing in the visionary regions of inflated romance. 
The calamities which oppress her heroines are such as might happen to 
any woman. Another merit in this author is, that instead of confining 
herself to the passion of love, as it exists in the female heart, before mar- 
riage, she depicts it in the varied trials to which it is subjected after mar- 
riage ; and this opens a mine which has been but little worked by novel- 
ists. Mrs. Moore understands her own sex thoroughly. It would be 
difficult, perhaps impossible, for a man to anatomize the female heart as 
she has done. Her plots are generally well managed, though she has as 
yet published no fiction of sufficient length to test her powers in this 
respect fully. As a magazinist, she enjoys an enviable reputation. Her 
success, indeed, is the more distinguished because authorship with her is 
an amusement rather than a profession. She wisely considers, that the 
duties of a wife and mother are paramount, and hence it is only her leisure 
that she surrenders to literature. Her pride is to be a woman first, an 
48 (377) 



378 CLARA MOORE. 

author afterwai'ds ; yet we trust that she will eventually find time for the 
composition of some more elaborate fiction than the short, fugitive stories 
with which she has hitherto graced our literature ; and with her wide 
observation of the female heart, and her skill in managing incidents, she 
cannot but succeed brilliantly if she makes the attempt. 

Most of her writings have been published under the nom de plume of 
'' Clara Moreton." 



THE YOUNO MINISTER'S CHOICE. 

Alone in her chamber, Gertrude Leslie sat, reading in bitter- 
ness of spirit the once cherished testimonials of her early love. 
Years had passed since those glowing Avords had been penned, and 
yet the fountains of her heart Avere stirred as violently as upon 
their first perusal. Still burned upon its altar-shrine the love 
which years of estrangement had not the power to destroy ; and 
like a guilty creature she hid her face Avithin her hands, when she 
remembered that her heart was now promised to another. 

Too well she knew that no promise bore the poAver of recalling 
that love from the worshipped idol of her youth, and that Avith 
false hopes she had deceived herself, as Avell as the noble and trust- 
ing heart noAV resting its happiness upon hers. 

For a long time Gertrude sat motionless, her white hands pressed 
tightly over her colourless face, and her mind far aAvay in the 
dreamy past. SAveet memories of that olden time came thronging 
to her brain, and again she Avas the guileless, happy child of "long 
ago" — again, in fancy, her light feet crushed the grass of the valley 
home where her childhood had been passed — again leaning upon 
the arm of one most tenderly beloved, she strayed along the banks 
of the moonlit river, her young heart as pure as the clear depths 
of the stream which reflected the golden gleaming stars of the azure 
sky. So in her heart did the stars of love then shed round a 
golden glow, but years had passed, and dimmer, still dimmer had 
grown their lustre, until at last she had fancied that the light of 
that early love had died away for ever. Vain fancy, when those 
written words had poAver to Avaken such strong emotions ! 

Rising from her seat, Gertrude Avith a quick impatience tore 



CLARA MOORE. 379 

into shreds letter after letter, and one by one cast them upon the 
glowing grate before her. 

"So perish all memory of the past," she said, "all memory 
of the misplaced attachment of my youth ; yet not misplaced, for 
he would have been true to me, I know he would, had I been 
worthy of such love as his once was." For a long time did Ger- 
trude thus commune with her own thoughts — then kneeling beside 
her couch, her bruised spirit poured itself out in broken words. 

Thanks to the Author of our being, that always the prayer of 
the earnest heart is answered — answered by the serene happiness 
which ever follows aspirations after truth — by the guiding light 
which dawns upon the mind — by the renewed strength which gives 
power to trample down all obstacles, and follow without faltering 
that beacon light. 

This light now dawned upon Gertrude's mind, showing her plainly 
the path of duty which led to her own happiness — the only path 
which could bring her peace. 

Her resolution being once taken she knew no faltering, and that 
evening, when her affianced husband, Julien Neville, resumed his 
accustomed seat beside her, in the brilliantly-lighted parlours of her 
father's splendid mansion, she met him, nerved to carry out her firm 
convictions of duty. 

They were alone in those large apartments, filled with every 
luxury. The light from the massive chandeliers flashed back from 
polished mirrors and costly frames of rare paintings, and from the 
gilded cornices of the rich curtains woven in foreign looms which 
shrouded the lofty windows, and fell in heavy folds to the tufted 
carpeting, where stainless lilies and glowing roses were blooming 
side by side in loving rivalry. They were alone — hope beating 
high in Julien's heart, although the fingers which he essayed to 
clasp within his own were cold and tremulous. Twice Gertrude 
had attempted to answer his loving words of greeting, and twice 
had the echo of her own thoughts died away upon her heart without 
leaving a vibration to the ear. 

"Ah, Julien," at length she gasped, "you will cease to care for 
me, cease to respect me, and yet I must tell you all." 



380 CLARA MOORE. 

" Never, my own — my SAveetest, I know all that you would say. 
It has been told me this- day, and I have come to urge a speedy 
union — to offer your father a home with us. Oh ! Gertrude, you 
wronged me by imagining for a moment, that the deep devotion of 
my heart could ever from such a cause know decay or change." 

" My father ! Julien, what do you mean ? Surely he needs no 
other home !" she said, and her quick eyes glanced over the elegant 
rooms, and rested in inquiry upon those of her lover. 

Julien Neville sighed heavily as he answered — 

" I had hoped, my dearest, that your father's misfortunes had 
already been broken to you, but surely no one could do it more 
tenderly than myself. Trust in me, darling, and do not fear for 
the future. I have wealth enough for all — more than enough, 
thank God; and this house, Gertrude, everything herein shall 
remain untouched. So do not look so wdldly, my own, you shall 
know no change ; and your father shall not miss the luxuries to 
which he has always been accustomed." 

"My father! change ! misfortunes ! you cannot mean, Julien, 
that he, that my father is a bankrupt !" 

"You have guessed but too truly, dear Gertrude." 

Overcome by the unexpectedness of the blow, Gertrude buried 
her head in the cushions of the lounge — refusing all the sympathy 
which Julien so tenderly proffered. Her heart bled at the thought 
of her father's disappointments, but not even for one moment did 
she swerve from her purpose. In days that were past she had de- 
ceived herself, but no longer was the calm affection which she had 
felt for Julien Neville to be mistaken for love. When she raised 
her face to his, it was as he had ever been wont to see it — there were 
mirrored there no traces of the wild torrent of emotions now delug- 
ing her bosom, and Julien gazed with pride upon her queenly 
beauty. The silence of that moment was broken by these words — 

" Julien, you will hate me for what I have to say this night, but 
it must be said. You must not reproach me — you must not call 
me fickle until you hear the whole. Oh ! Julien, my love for you 
is but as a sister's love, I cannot be more to you." She veiled her 



CLARA MOORE. Sgi 

eyes with one hand, as if to hide the anguished expression of her 
companion's face, and continued — 

" To you, Julien, I owe a confession which I thought should have 
died with me. When I was young — scarcely sixteen, my mother 
died. My father could not endure the mournful loneliness of our 
village home after she had gone, and in the bustle and excitement 
of business in the city he strove to forget all sad memories. It was 
then that I parted from Howard Beauchamp, the only child of our 
village minister. His mother had died in his infancy, and we had 
been almost constantly together from our childhood. Upon the 
evening of our parting we exchanged promises of eternal constancy. 

" Months passed — his letters brought me the only happiness that 
I knew, for my father could in no way replace to me the love which 
in my mother's death I lost. At length the letters ceased entirely. 
I heard of his father's death, and of his own illness, and still I 
wrote, for I could not believe that he was false to me. One day a 
note was brought to me — the handwriting was strange. I broke 
the seal. It was from a cousin of his whom I had never seen, but of 
whom he had often spoken to me as a prodigy of beauty and talent. 
She wrote me that she had nursed him during his illness — that 
change of air had been prescribed by the physician, and that he had 
accompanied her to her Southern home, where it was now his inten- 
tion to reside. In delicate and sympathizing words she wrote of 
the transferral of Howard's love from me, to her, his cousin — of 
their strong attachment for each other, and her earnest wish that I 
would not tell him that she had written. ' Not for my sake do I 
write this,' she said, 'but for his, whose happiness is dearer to me 
than life itself.' There was but one course before me. I summoned 
all my pride, and wrote to him what I imagined I ought to feel, not 
what I did. I made no allusion to his cousin. I told him that I 
loved him no longer ; I wrote a great deal that was false, but I 
fully intended to make it truth. Years passed — we travelled all 
over the United States, and I heard no more from Howard Beau- 
champ. When at Newport you saved my life, and added to it the 
offering of your own, I felt toward you more affection than had 
been awakened for years ; but I was deceived with regard to my 



38-2 CLARA MOORE. 

true feelings ; for, Julieii, they can never be more than those of a 
sister." 

Bitter, indeed, were these words to Julien Neville — doubly bitter 
because he knew Gertrude too well to doubt the strength of an 
attachment which would enable so proud a spirit to endure the 
mortification of such a confession. Yet with all his disappointment, 
he could find no heart to blame, even for an instant, the stricken 
form before him. 

" Oh ! Gertrude," he said, " nothing can change my love for you, 
and I will not even ask yours in return. I will strive to be satis- 
fied with a sister's affection, only give me the blessed privilege of 
ever remaining near you to cherish and protect." 

" It cannot be, Julien. I know how free from selfishness your 
love is ; and I know that could you see the wild emotions which the 
recalled memories of those hours have this day awakened, you 
would never wish me to be other to you than I am. This must be 
our last meeting, Julien, unless you will promise not to use one 
persuasion to induce me to change — not that I fear my own 
strength, but because every effort which you make will only increase 
the misery which I now feel." 

Plours passed before that promise was given. 

Poor Julien Neville ! He left Gertrude that night with the full 
belief that in all the world there was no balm for a heart so 
wounded as his o^Yn. 



When Gertrude entered her father's library early the next morn- 
ing, she found him sleeping lethargically in his large arm-chair. 
Wondering that he should be up so much sooner than his custom — 
or that he could thus sleep when he knew of his utter ruin, she 
looked in surprise upon him. 

She knew not that all the Aveary night he had paced the room, 
weeping in bitter agony over the loss of his worshipped wealth. 

Drawing closer to him, she said — "Father, I have something to 
say to you, will you listen ?" There was no answering sound, save 



CLARA MOORE. 383 

those of his heavy breathings. Alarmed, she took hohl of him by 
the shouhler. 

*' Father ! father !" she screamed. 

The piercing tones of her voice aroused him — he started, looked 
around, passed one hand hurriedly over his eyes, and then "with a 
long sigh sank back in his chair again. 

Relieved from her anxiety, Gertrude drew a seat beside him. 

" I have come, father, to converse with you about your misfor- 
tunes — perhaps they are not so bad as you imagine." 

"All is lost! every cent!" replied Mr. Leslie, in a husky tone 
of voice ; " but it Avill make no difference to you, Gertrude, for 
Julien is a noble fellow ; but it is hard for me in my old age to be 
dependent upon my child." 

" We will not be dependent upon Julien, father — we will go back 
to our old place at Elmwood, and I can teach music and drawing 
in the village academy, and we shall be as happy as we have ever 
been here ; for, father, I do not love Julien as I ought to love him, 
and I have told him so, and we have parted to meet only hereafter 
as friends." 

The words which she had so dreaded to say had now escaped her 
lips, and her father's stern gaze was fixed steadily upon her. 

" Gertrude ! what have you done ? — taken away my only hope ! 
— turned us both out into the world as beggars ! I tell you every 
cent is gone : beggars ! beggars !" he repeated in a low, deep tone. 
He arose from his seat — his face crimsoning with excitement — 
stepped but one foot forward, then fell over heavily upon the floor. 

Gertrude's screams brought the servants to her. Physicians 
were immediately summoned, and Mr. Leslie was borne in an 
unconscious state to his room. They pronounced him in an apo- 
plectic fit, but the usual remedies were tried in vain. Gertrude 
sat constantly beside him, watching for hours for some sign of 
returning consciousness. At length the hand which she held moved 
slightly. 

" Oh, father !" she cried, " speak to me once more : do not leave 
me alone! oh, father! father!" 

The agonized tones of her voice seemed to arouse him. His 



384 CLARA MOORE. 

lips moved. Slic bent lier head to listen, and caught tlie woids, 

" God bless my poor child ; God bless thee, Gcr ," his lips still 

moved, but there came no audible sound. 
Poor Gertrude ! She was now alone ! 



At twilight, when Gertrude entered the lonely grave-yard, she 
met Howard Beauchamp just emerging from an avenue of cedars. 
He paused for a moment, and then advancing said — 

"We were friends once ; may I hope that wc still are?" 

Gertrude could not speak, but she stretched out her hand to 
answer his greeting. 

" Time has brought many changes to both of us," he continued ; 
" in this i)lace of graves, your sainted mother and my revered 
father sleeps ; but since I have become an orphan — alone and deso- 
late in the world, I have heard but little of you, excepting of your 
marriage ; I trust for your sake, Gertrude, that the mourning gar- 
ments which you now wear arc not a Avidow's weeds." 

Gertrude Leslie looked in surprise upon him as she answered — 

" I have never been married, Howard ; it is for my father that 
I mourn." 

A sudden ray of joy illuminated his fine face, then died away 
as he said in sad, low tones — 

"And you are an orphan, too ; but oh ! not so desolate an one, 
I trust, as myself." 

" And why should I not be, Howard ? — the blow Avhich deprived 
me of my father loft me penniless — Avcll-nigh friendless ; but you 
in your cousin's love have found a happiness which I can never 
hope." 

She saw the crimson glow which spread over the marble features 
of her companion. 

" Then you too know of her unfortunate attachment — poor 
Ellen ! I have tried in vain to feel more than a brother's attach- 
ment to her ; the memory of my youthful love, Gertrude, is too 
strong to boar to be replaced, even in imagination," said Howard, 
as he bent his dark eyes searchingly upon hers. 



CLARA MOORE. 385 

"And you — you, Howard — are not you married?" questioned 
Gertrude, almost breathless, as her eyelids drooped under the 
steadiness of his gaze. 

" No, Gertrude ; the vows -which I plighted to you were too 
solemn ever to be broken, even though you gave them back with 
scornful words and bitter mockings. Do you not remember that 
on the evening of our parting I promised ever to love you, and you 
alone ?" 

As Gertrude raised her eyes to answer, she saw the figure of a 
graceful female gliding toward them in the dim twilight. 

" It is my cousin, Ellen Beauchamp," Howard said. 

They were leaning upon the marble tomb of Mrs. Leslie ; and 
Ellen advancing stood beside them. Her cheeks were pale and 
transparent ; and the large, brilliant eyes were sunken, yet there 
were many traces of exceeding beauty. 

" You must neither of you curse me, for I have suffered enough," 
she said. 

"Why should we curse you, dear Ellen?" said Howard, ten- 
derly — "my poor cousin is not well, Gertrude — she was the most 
faithful of nurses to me when I was so ill that my life was despaired 
of, and she has never been well since — we are travelling now with 
her — her mother and myself, in hopes of restoring her health — 
poor Ellen !" 

"Yes, poor Ellen!" echoed the hollow voice of the emaciated 
form beside him — " poor Ellen needs pity. Gertrude, will you 
promise to pity me if I tell you all ?" 

" No, Ellen, not pity ; but my heart's warmest sympathy I will 
offer to you." Tears dropped like rain from Ellen's large eyes as 
she clasped the hand which Gertrude had extended. 

"Oh, Gertrude ! I Avrote falsely to you, when I told you that 

Howard no longer loved you. I was mad with love for him — so 

mad that I forgot that you had a heart which could be crushed 

even as mine is now. Howard ! I burned the letters which you 

penned in your first sickness — I burned all which she wrote to you. 

I wrote to her, and told her that you loved her not, that you waited 

but a release from your vows to breathe them to me ; and then I 
49 



386 CLARA MOORE. 

told you that she was married, and I showed you the letter which 
I had goaded her on to write. In the relapse which followed your 
reading of that letter I would have told you all, but you looked so 
gently and tenderly upon me, I could not bear to tell you what a 
wretch I was. Has my repentance come too late to either of you ? 
Have I sinned past forgiveness ? Oh ! believe me, I have suffered 
enough in the agony of my unloved life — in the memory of those 
false words, which I fear have perjured my soul for ever." 

"No, Ellen; not forever. Repentance never comes too late. 
God will forgive you, even as I know Gertrude and myself have 
already done — have we not, dear Gertrude?" 

It was the first word of love, and Gertrude bent her head to con- 
ceal the warm blushes which crimsoned her face ; but as she did so, 
she kissed the delicate hand of Ellen, which she still retained. 

When they passed out of the grave-yard, Ellen and Gertrude 
each leaned upon an arm of Howard Beauchamp — Ellen still " sow- 
ing in tears," and Gertrude and Howard "reaping in joy." 



ANN E. PORTER. 



Miss Lydia Ann Emerson was born October 14, 1816, at Newbury- 
port, Massachusetts, where was her home, except when away at school, till 
1833. In that year she went to Royalton, Vermont, as an assistant teacher 
in the Academy of that place. 

Her mother died when she was but two years old, and at four she was, 
with brothers and sisters, under the care of a stepmother. Between three 
and four years, from her thirteenth to her seventeenth year, she enjoyed 
a regular course of instruction at the celebrated Ipswich Female Academy. 

In 1834, she went to Springfield, Vermont, and established a Select 
School, which met with eminent success. 

In 1836, she was invited to the charge of the Southampton Academy, 
but was early induced to remove to Putnam, Ohio — where she became the 
principal of a newly opened Female Seminary. During four years' resi- 
dence at this interesting place, she experienced many of those incidents 
of western life, so soul-stirring to the young emigrant. Those only who 
have enjoyed the sociality of life in a new country, or the hospitality of an 
earlier age, will be likely to appreciate the recollections of a lone female 
instructor, thus employed among strangers. It is hoped that her con- 
nexion with that seminary and community is still remembered by her 
pupils and their friends, as it is by herself, with interest and enjoyment. 

Newark, Ohio, was the home of another year in Miss Emerson's diver- 
sified life 3 and the year 1841 was spent most agreeably at that place in 
charge of the female department of " Delaware Academy," at the Springs. 
Here, too, the social freedom peculiar to frontier civilization, had influ- 
ences on mind and memory, often recurred to with pleasure. 

In the autumn of 1841, Miss Emerson became the wife of IMr. Charles 
E. Porter, of Springfield, Vermont, and she has ever since been a resident 
of that place. 

Mrs. Porter has been an occasional contributor to the periodical press 

(387) 



nSS ANN E. rORTER. 

since the year 1834 : of late, under her own signature. ITer thoughts and 
sketches, though hasty, have cudeared her to many friends. She has also 
contributed two small volumes towards the Sunday School Library. ])ut 
the labours of love, and the duties of domestic life, have not as yet per- 
mitted that concentration of her powers upon any extended work, which 
some who know her, anticipate, when an appropriate occasion shall come. 



COUSIN HELEN'S BABY. 

Your letter, dear cousin, is before me, for I am resolved to do, 
■\vliat is someAvhat unusual among our sex, ansiver it; that is, give 
a reply to all the questions contained therein, and, if possible, 
attend to the most important before I come to the postscript. Y'^ou 
begin as follows : — 

" How in the world am I to write this letter witli my baby ?" 

AVcll, it seems from your own statement at the close, as well as 
from sundry other iinmistakcablc signs, such as a few blots, paper 
a little "crumpled," and a few extra flourishes, that you did 
actually accomplish the thing, and that, too, with the baby in the 
room, and part of the time in your arms. 

"Impossible !" said Napoleon ; "let that word be struck out of 
my dictionary." Alas ! we poor mothers often find in our pathway 
rugged Alps to climb, but, almost always, ingenuity and patience 
will work a way around the jagged rocks, or through the narrow 
defiles. 

"Oh, this baby tending!" you next exclaim; and, from the 
heavy tread of the pen and the big admiration point, it seems to 
come from a spot deeper than the German gutturals ; I conclude, 
even from the bottom of your heart, for you go on to say, " Oh ! 
if these husbands, who can commence and finish their business at 
stated hours, and do everything by the clock, could know hoAv tedi- 
ous is the tread-mill path of one who has a .troublesome, crying 
baby to manage, they would certainly try to initiate themselves 
into the mystery of baby tending, and aid us more." 

Really, Ann, I had supposed you possessed of different ideas of 
woman's cares and man's duties ; or have you become an ultra 
woman's rights partizan, or arc you so clear-sighted as to understand 



ANN E. PORTER. 089 

Miss Fuller's " "Woman in the nineteenth century ?" If so, my 
humble experience will be of little avail ; for, as a wife and mother, I 
have trod a lowly path, and never dared step foot into the balloon 
of transcendentalism. 

Again you say : " If one child is so much care, how can you 
manage five ?" 

Well might you ask, and I Avould answer, if you find that one, 
as you say, makes you half crazy, five will certainly send you to the 
insane asylum, unless upon the homoeopathic principle, " that which 
kills will cure." But, the truth is, you lived in such a still, orderly 
way so long after your marriage, that the change seems more strik- 
ing to you, and the care more onerous than it really is. 

" But for a chapter of your experience ;" and you shall have it ; 
for, on glancing back upon what I have written, I find that it has 
a dictatorial air, which it ill becomes me to assume ; and, to punish 
myself, I will give you a little sketch of my management with my 
first baby, that you may see I was far behind yourself in prudence 
and skill. 

Need I tell any one who has been a mother, of the joy which 
one experiences at the birth of her first-born ? It is like the 
glorious sunlight of morning after a night of storm and darkness ; 
yea, like the rapture of heaven to the weary spirit, when she folds, 
for the first time, the young immortal to her bosom, and breathes 
from a full heart her gratitude to God, At least, such were my 
own feelings when my eldest, my precious child Arthur, was born. 

I had read Grahame and Alcott, and a score of other writers 
upon the management of infants, and thought myself quite wise — 
certainly capable of criticising others — but now, all my wisdom for- 
sook me, and I felt ignorant as a child. Our means were limited, 
and we Averc not able to hire just such help as we wished ; but an 
old woman, who had had some little experience, was engaged, and 
so confident was she of her own abilities, that I yielded implicitly 
to her directions. When I remonstrated upon the use of pins, she 
exclaimed, " Lawful sake, ma'am ! do you expect me to use these 
ere strings anl loops ? I never did afore, and you can't expect me 



390 ANN E. PORTER. 

to begin now; besides, what kind er shape suppose your baby '11 
be, if I don't pin it up snug and tight now ?" 

Feeble as I then was, I could do little for myself or the babe, 
but I would sometimes quiet its cries by stealthily loosening its 
clothes as it lay by my side. My child was scarcely two days old 
before my kind neighbours began to pour in with their sympathy 
and congratulations. Too timid to refuse them admittance, and too 
weak to endure company, I suffered much, and yet the scenes were 
sometimes so comical I could not help laughing. Some days quite 
a number would call at once. Mrs. Higgins, and Aunt Lucy, and 
old Mrs. Gove, were in one day together. 

"What a nice fat baby!" said the last, who had just entered; 
"for all the world the very image of its father" — (it had just been 
pronounced " as like to me as two peas'") — " and not a mark about 
it; — why my John has an apple on his forehead, and a strawberry 
on his great toe. I hope you've given the little thing some physic, 
Mrs. Bagly." 

"La, yes," said the latter, bridling up ; "I always gives caster 
He the first thing — nothing better, you know." 

" And then, I suppose, you feed it some, till its mother has milk 
sufficient?" 

" The little darling don't suffer, I can tell you," answered the 
nurse, proudly. " I take the top of the milk and sweeten it up 
well, and it has as much as it can take. Mrs. Wadsworth talked 
about leaving things to nater, but I tell her I guess nater would 
leave her if I didn't stick by." 

" I hope, in all conscience, you won't get any of these new- 
fangled notions into your head," said Mrs. Higgins. " You'll 
sartinly kill your baby if you do. Why our minister's wife is half 
crazy with her book larning about babies. She washes hers all 
over in cold water every morning, and e'en amost starves it, too ; 
for no matter if it cries ever so hard, she won't feed it till the time 
comes, as she calls it, and that's once in three hours. If she warn't 
the minister's wife, I believe the selectmen would take the matter 
up ; but I eased my conscience by giving her a piece of my mind." 

"T didn't say a word when she was at our house," said the 



ANN E. PORTER. 391 

kind-liearted Aunt Lucy, " but I was a feeding it with apple pie — 
nothing in the world but plain apple pie, 'twouldn't hurt a flea — 
when she come along, and, in her pleasant way, said, ' I would 
rather the baby have nothing to eat, Mrs. Nutting.' I was most 
scared, for fear I'd done something sinful." 

Arthur was now trying the use of his little lungs, and powerfully, 
too, much to the discomfort of the guests and myself. 

" Can't you give the child something to quiet it ?" said Aunt 
Lucy. " Some catnip tea would be good." 

"Not half so good as piny root," said Mrs. Higgins, "or some 
camphor sling." 

"Now, that reminds me," chimed in Mrs. Gove, "of one injury 
that these temperance societies have done. Babies didn't use to 
cry so when I was young ; and I never thought, when I had a baby, 
that I could do without a decanter of gin. There's nothing like it 
for the cholic ; and then it would strengthen you up, Mrs. Wads- 
worth, and set you right upon your feet again.' 

"That's just what I tell her," said the nurse ; "but there ain't 
a drop in the house, and Mr. Wadsworth says that he prefers not 
to use it unless the doctor prescribe." 

"Well, well, every one to their notion," said Mrs. Higgins. 
" I'm not certain but soot tea will answer the purpose as well — 
that's one of my favourite remedies." 

"I must go now," said Aunt Lucy, as she rose to depart, "for 
my old man will be wanting his supper ; but between sundown and 
dark I'll run over with some arbs, catnip and sage, and thorough- 
wort. I reckon I can cure the baby." 

In the mean while I had exerted all my strength to hush the 
little sufferer, and he now lay asleep upon my arm ; but I was 
covered with a profuse perspiration, and, as soon as the child was 
removed, fell back exhausted. 

The next day, about the same hour, Arthur commenced crying 
again, and it continued so long and loud that I became thoroughly 
alarmed. Poor Mrs. Bagly did her best, but all in vain. I re- 
moved the pins and loosened his dress, but it did no good, he cried 
without ceasing. 



893 ANN E. rORTER. 

"There now," said Mrs. Bagly, "don't worry any more, and 
I'll give him something that will make him sleep sweetly." 

"Not camphor sling?" I said, inquiringly. 

"La, no; now don't be so scared. I'll just go into the kitchen 
and take my pipe and let the smoke of the tobacco go into a bowl 
of water, and then I'll sweeten some of that water and give it to 
him; it will make him so easy and still." 

This was something so novel, that I hardly knew wdiat to say ; 
it seemed a strange medicine for a babe, and yet she assured me 
that she had used it a hundred times, and that it was harmless. 
But the screams of the child continuing, I allowed her to do as she 
pleased, though I said, faintly — 

" I hope his father won't smell the smoke when he comes in to 
see the baby; he perfectly despises the weed, as he calls it." 

Mrs. Bagly stopped short in the middle of the room : " "Well, I'm 
beat noAV ! I never heard of a lawyer before that didn't chaiv, nor 
smoke, or, at least, take snuff. Why, Squire Tappan never come 
to see my old man, but he'd out with his box, and ' Won't you take 
a pinch, Mrs. Bagly ?' He was a smart man, I can tell you, and 
I believe it was the tobacco put the grit into him. He never spoke 
but he had a pinch between his thumb and finger, and it was scat- 
tered as thick among his books and papers as a French stew with 
pepper." 

" Well, well, Mrs. Bagly, my baby will cry itself to death if 
something isn't done." 

" I know it, ma'am ; it will certainly hust itself if it don't have 
the smoked water;" and she disappeared to fetch it. 

" Oh, dear," I groaned within myself, " I wish Charles were 
here, perhaps he could aid me;" but he was gone to the next 
village, and would not be at home for some hours. 

The nurse was not long absent, and taking the child in her lap 
fed it freely. Its cries ceased, and it soon fell asleep. "\Yith a 
feeling of relief I flung myself upon the bed, while she wrapped 
little Arthur in his blanket, laid him in his cradle, and left the room 
to attend to her duties in the kitchen. 

I soon fell into a quiet sleep, and I know not how long I had 



ANN E. PORTER. 093 

lain, when a slight rustling disturbed me. I opened my eyes, and 
saw my dearest friend, Mary Porter, near me. 

"Why have you not been to see me before?" I said, rather 
reproachfully. 

" I have ; but when you were asleep. I thought I must see you 
and the baby, so I stole in at that time, for I knew company would 
injure you, and I feared we would talk too much. There now, go 
to sleep again, and I will watch by the cradle — you must, or I shall 
leave." 

Seeing her resolute, I tried to obey, but I could not refrain from 
opening my eyes to look at her, it seemed so pleasant to have her 
near me. She sat in a low rocking-chair by the side of the cradle. 

She watched for a while the sleeping babe, and then I saw her 
stoop and place her ear as if listening to its breathing ; then, rising, 
she knelt over it, and taking one hand, held it for a moment and 
let it drop, then she did the same wdth the other. Removing the 
covering, she felt its little feet, and held them awhile in her hands. 
I thought for the moment she was rather childish. After again 
covering the child, she drew the curtains of my own bed close 
around me, and then, as I thought, removed the cradle farther 
from my bed, and left the room. 

I wondered what this meant, and was about to rise and go to the 
cradle myself, when the door gently opened, and I distinguished 
the voices of Mrs. Bagly and Mary, though they spoke in whispers. 

" Don't make such a fuss about nothing. Miss Mary. Ha'n't I 
had children ? and don't an old woman like me know more about 
nursing than such a young thing as yourself?" 

"But look, Mrs. Bagly, for yourself," and she lifted the babe 
from the cradle. 

I did not wait for a reply, but sprang to my feet and took my 
child, "It's certainly dead!" I exclaimed, as, with every muscle 
relaxed, it lay unconscious in my arms. 

"Not dead, I trust," said Mary. "See, its little heart yet 
beats." 

I tried to waken it, but in vain. It lay like one in deep stupor, 
and, as I believed, the stupor of death. 

50 



394 ANN E. PORTER. 

"We've killed it — poisoned it with that vile tobacco!" I ex- 
claimed ; and, in despair, I pressed it to my bosom and wept like 
a child. 

" Let me take the baby," said a kind voice, and looking up I 
recognised Dr. Perkins. 

I held it still more closely, while I begged him to tell me if there 
was any hope. He took the little hand in his own, and placed his 
ear so that he could distinguish the breathing. 

"I think that we can save your babe, Helen; but," he added, 
in a tone of mild authority, "you are killing yourself; go and lie 
do-\vn, and I will see to the child." 

He was our family physician ; one to whom, from childhood, I 
had been accustomed to look up with reverence. I yielded my 
precious bm-then, and reluctantly obeyed. My husband came in 
at that moment and enforced the doctor's direction, assuring me 
that everything in their power should be done for the child. 

But what a night of anguish and suspense we passed ! Morning 
found the doctor still there ; for it was not until then that he was 
able to rouse the infant from that dreadful stupor, and then, for 
days, it hovered on the very verge of death. It was a sad lesson 
to a young mother. 



E. W. BARNES 



Miss Barnes is a native, and has been all her life a resident, of Ports- 
mouth, New Hampshire. Her father is by birth a Swede, the only son 
of an oflBcer in the Swedish army. On his arrival in this country in 
early youth, he was persuaded by a clergyman of Salem to change his 
name from Ludwig Baarnhielm to Lewis Barnes, for greater convenience 
of pronunciation. Miss Barnes has published, in Annuals and Magazines, 
a considerable amount of prose and verse, all of a very creditable charac- 
ter. From a prose tale published in 1850, the following sketch has been 
selected as a fair specimen of her style. 



THE YOUNa KECTOR. 

The crash startled from bis revery a pale student, who, in the 
same apartment by his solitary lamp, sat poring over the pages of 
a ponderous volume, whilo. beside it, on his writing-desk, lay the 
half-written page on which, with a vigorous and rapid pen, he wrote 
from time to time, with an energy which told how every faculty of 
his mind was absorbed in the work before him. He rose from his 
task as the shattered glass fleAV even over the table at which he sat, 
and, still engrossed in the thoughts which had occupied him for 
some hours, went mechanically to the window, thrust into the aper- 
ture some old and worn-out garment, and returned again abstract- 
edly to his work. 

The hours moved on, and no sound recalled him from the intel- 
lectual world in which his spirit was far away, except the continued 

(.395) 



SS6 E. W. BARNES. 

discord of the elements without, and the monotonous ticking of the 
old clock, -which had gro>Yn aged with the time-worn habitation in 
which it had stood for nearly a century. Page after page, glowing 
with his own deep earnestness of spirit, and the rich imagery which 
the study of the Sacred Volume and of classic lore had taught 
him, was filled, and at length the young rector rose wearily from 
his desk, and pressing his hand to his aching brow, walked to the 
window, and, for the first time, seemed quite aware of the rude 
conflict amid the elements of the outward world. Shading his 
eyes from the light, he peered out through the shattered casement. 
"What a night," thought he, "for the poor and homeless! and 
ah ! how many among my parishioners must feel this keen and 
cutting blast through the crevices in their wretched dwellings ! 
Would that I could provide for each a comfortable shelter from the 
storm ; but, alas ! my miserable pittance ! — what does it more than 
keep together ' the mortal body and the immortal soul ?' " 

With a sigh he turned away, and drawing his chair in front of 
the fire, he stirred the expiring embers, and sat gazing abstractedly 
into them, while his thoughts dwelt upon the different allotments of 
good and ill which fall to the share of human destiny. He had 
seen the honest and deserving poor baffled in every effort to advance, 
bravely buffeting the billows of misfortune, with scarce a gleam of 
hope to cheer them on, yet blessing God daily and hourly in their 
hearts for the good things they received ; and he had seen the 
wealthy revelling in their luxury, thankless and thoughtless, closing 
the ear to the appeals of starving poverty, and forgetful even of 
Him whose bounty they enjoyed. Then came his thoughts down 
to a narrower sphere, and dwelt on his own personal history. Far 
back his memory bore him to the days of early childhood, to its 
poverty and its privations. Then came the labours and struggles 
necessary to bear him through the years of his college life, upheld 
by the resolution to develop by culture the powers of a naturally 
fine and vigorous intellect. 

Ee-perusing, line by line, the pages of his past existence, and 
suffering a tear occasionally to fall, — prompted by bitter Memory, 
as if to blot out the record she had made, — 'the young rector sat in 



E.W. BARNES. £97 

a half-reclining position, in his well-T\'orn arm-chair, with his feet 
upon the fender, and in deep revery gazed musingly into the 
declining fire. Ever and anon it threw up a fitful gleam, that 
reminded him of some of the many hopes which had arisen on his 
horizon, and sunk again as soon in dai'kness. It was Christmas 
Eve, the eve preceding the great festival of the Nativity. Why, 
then, was he gloomy and depressed at this hour of triumph to the 
church he loved ? Fain would he have shaken off the sad fantasies 
which hung like an incubus upon his spirit, but his efforts were in 
vain. Again and again they returned to the charge, and at every 
onset they became an ever-increasing, darkening host, resistless in 
their power. He tried to picture to his imagination those happy 
homes, which were drawing around them at this festive season, as 
round a dazzling nucleus, the wanderers who had gone out from 
them on the voyage of life. He fancied the happy meetings and 
the glad welcome home ; the merry fire would sparkle in the grate, 
and send forth its ruddiest glow ; the cheerful board would be 
spread ; merry hearts and merry voices would hail the coming of 
the "merry Christmas;" the aged sire, with thin, white locks, 
would look round with, satisfaction upon his children, and his child- 
ren's children, as he asked God's blessing on the festive cheer. 
Alas ! these pictures but restored, with a deeper colouring, his own 
sense of loneliness ; and yielding finally to its resistless sway, he 
sufiered the hours to wax and wane, all heedless of their flight : the 
surging of the great and limitless ocean on the shore of time, and 
its rapidly advancing waves, affected him not. He was alone; — 
alone must he meet his doom. 

Still not a sound disturbed the deepening silence, or broke in 
upon his gloomy revery, but the same monotonous ticking of the 
venerable time-piece, the hollow moaning of the storm, or the faint 
falling of the waning embers. He leaned his head wearily upon 
his hand, and watched them as they sunk and were extinguished 
one by one. His revery deepened ; silence was becoming almost 
audible ; a torpor was stealing over him ; but now, as his gaze was 
fixed steadfastly upon the declining fire, a light, thin vapour seemed 
to rise from beneath it, and curling gently upward and over it, par- 



388 E. W. BARNES. 

tially obscured it to his vision. Gradually it ascended, wreathed 
itself over the antiquated fire-place, stole softly up to the ceiling, 
and wound its enfolding arms quietly about the old clock, till its 
face and hands became imperceptible in the pale lamp-light. Grow- 
ing denser as it proceeded, round and round the time-stained walls 
it noiselessly crept, and continued its quiet circuitous motion, fold 
within fold, filling up the whole intermediate space between them 
and the chair of the young rector, and shutting out every familiar 
object in his desolate apartment, till he was hemmed in by an 
impervious atmosphere. Closer and closer the walls of his prison- 
house were pressing upon him at each moment ; his breath came 
thicker and heavier at every inspiration ; a sense of oppression, of 
sufibcation, was upon him ; yet had he no power of motion, no 
ability to seek relief. 

How long he thus lay bound, manacled, speechless, he knew not. 
He heard no sound ; even the tempest seemed to have ceased its 
moaning ; and he asked himself, " Must I thus die ? — is there no 
hand to aid ?" There was a pause, during which it seemed as if 
thought itself were checked in its flow, and then there was observa- 
ble a slight undulation in the dense mass ; it trembled, it wavered, 
it parted in the midst — moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, but 
steadily, and falling back on either side, shaped itself gradually 
into graceful columns. First the base appeared, then rose the shaft, 
and then the finished capital. Moving thence gently upward, it 
threw its graceful mist-wreaths into noble Gothic arches. The 
marble pavement noiselessly spread itself beneath his feet, and he 
sat before the high altar of a great cathedral. Upon it stood 
seven golden candlesticks, and in the midst a golden censer. Soft 
moonlight, tinged with the rainbow dyes of the stained glass 
through which it passed, rested on the surrounding objects. There 
was a silence, so deep, so solemn, that it pervaded his whole being ; 
and then the strains of the organ, soft, distant, as if amid the 
spheres, rolled through the high arches, which, as they grew deeper 
and louder, trembled beneath the vibrations. 

Awe-struck, he listened, and then voices, as of unseen angels, 
mingled in the deep swell, and the " Stabat Mater" poured its holy 



E. W. BARNES. 399 

Strains on his rapt senses ; and his soul, lifted, inspired by the 
divine harmony, seemed borne upward, even into the presence of 
the Holy One. With hands clasped and unconsciously upraised, 
he heard the strains die away softly upon the ear, but the echoes 
lingered long among the lofty arches. There was a pause, and not 
a sound of earth disturbed that hallowed stillness ; but, though he 
saw them not, he felt the presence of angel forms around and 
above him, moving silently on their silver wings. Again breathed 
the tones of the organ, and the grand " Te Deum" rose to the 
" Lord God of Sabaoth ;" and that too died away upon the ear, 
but its heavenly music vibrated long in the listening spirit. 

Now from the golden censer a soft and fragrant incense slowly 
ascends ; and with reverential awe he watches it, till, as it higher 
mounts, the edges of the light and vapoury folds are touched with 
a silver brightness, as if a glory from on high had lightened them. 
And on the bosom of the cloud, gracefully reposing, he beholds a 
form that has no parallel amid the forms of earth. Dimly and indis- 
tinctly he sees her, cradled within those misty folds ; and slowly 
the silvery mass descends with its heavenly burden, until it rests 
above the sacred altar. A holy influence steals over his senses — 
an unspeakable serenity — a calm like that of Gennesareth, when 
the voice of the Saviour spoke to the troubled waters. Whence 
comes the hallowed peace, the sweet repose that pervades his 
spirit, as, rapt and awe-stricken, he gazes on that benignant face ? 
Ah ! could it be impressed for ever on the mirror of his soul, never 
more would it reflect the blackening cloud, — never more Avould it 
be ruffled by the storm-winds of passion, or shadowed by the dark- 
ness of despair. Would she but speak to him ! — would she but 
make known her angel mission ! — but no, she does but gaze upon 
him with sweetness, with pity, with benignity. The eyes, so gen- 
tle, never for a moment turned from his ; and, as bound by a 
resistless spell, he yielded to the repose which they inspired. He 
was no longer of the earth : purified by that soft smile from every 
trace of its corruptions, he basked in the purity of that radiance, 
and trembled lest a cloud should overshadow it, lest the holy spell 



400 E. W. BARNES. 

should be broken. Oh ! to be ever thus — to know such transcend- 
ent peace ! This it is to be in communion with the angels. 

And now the beauteous vision, with its garments of silver vapour, 
stood upright upon the fleecy masses of the cloud, with her eye 
unmoved from the face of the entranced beholder. Her left arm 
slowly advanced from the mists around her, and, bending gently 
towards him, she extended the cross, one arm of it encircled by a 
crown of thorns, the other draped with the purple robe, and over 
it this motto : " On earth thou wilt wear these, for thy Saviour s 
sake." 

Deep was the silence which followed. He moved not, spoke not, 
lest, like a dream, his happiness shovild vanish away. Soft strains 
of music were heard in the distance, growing fainter and fainter, 
till they were lost upon the ear. And now the right arm gradually 
rose, and a taper finger pointed upward. Following it with his 
eye, he descried, distant far and almost unseen, a crown, irradiated 
with a soft halo of golden light, and bearing these words : " This 
awaits thee in Heaven.'' 

One arm upraised, and one extending towards him the cross, her 
eye riveted upon him, she stood motionless as a statue. Again 
rose the soft strains of music, mingled with voices of angelic sweet- 
ness. Her voice was not heard among them, but her gaze seemed 
reading the secrets of that spirit, still condemned to struggle a 
while longer with the cares of earth. To pity and to soothe it 
seemed her mission ; and that mission was fulfilled, — so calm, so 
deep was the peace which settled on his spirit, so elevated were his 
thoughts, and so attuned to worship. The music continued, now 
like the far distant sound of many waters surging upon an unseen 
shore, now nearer and nearer, and then floating upward and dying 
away in heaven. It ceased, and he fancied that the silver cloud 
was rising again, and that the vision was fading away. With an 
irresistible impulse he sprang forward, threw himself on his knees 
before the heavenly vision, and extended his arms to embrace the 
cross. Alas ! in a moment all had vanished ; the beautiful pageant 
was no more ; and he awoke, to find himself prostrate, with out- 
stretched arms, before the desolate walls of his room. There were 



E. W. BARNES. 401 

the remains of his decayed fire, there his arm-chair, and there the 
old time-piece, telling the same monotonous tale. The dawn was 
not yet hreaking, and his dim lamp was just expiring in its socket. 

It was indeed the old familiar scene, which had witnessed all his 
struggles, all his tears, but which he had briefly exchanged for the 
communion and the minstrelsy of heaven. He rose, and pressed 
his hand to his brow. It was then indeed a dream, and he had 
been revelling amid the hallowed joys of " the spirit-land ?" Yet, 
if " millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth," might not this 
be one, sent on a mission of mercy to his suffering, struggling 
spirit ; to raise him from despondency ; to bid him bear on unmur- 
muringly, and, while wearing the cross, to look ever upward and 
onward to the promised crown ? 

When the Rector awoke the next morning, the sun was brighter 
to his eye, the wind fell more softly on his cheek, and stirred the 
light clustering hair upon his brow. He was no more alone, for 
that ministering angel had taken up her abode within his soul, and 
her serene smile was fixed upon him ever. He loved the clouds, 
the air, the earth ; he loved the glittering icicle that was melting 
in tears beneath the sunbeam ; and he loved the snow-wreath that 
gracefully hung over the cottage porch. Love — love to God, and 
love to man — was the prevailing attribute of his soul ; and those 
who listened that day to the voice of their rector in his village 
church, felt, though they knew not why, a higher, fuller sense of 
the " beauty of holiness." His words were fraught with a new 
energy ; his voice rose with his choir in the full strains of the 
Christmas anthem ; and when he entered his pulpit, a new and 
divine inspiration seemed to have touched his lips, as with a live 
coal from the altar. 

That vision of the night became to the young rector the vision 
also of his waking hours ; and when his congregation wondered at 
the new traits which manifested themselves in his character, — 
when they saw his peculiar serenity under all the ever-varying 
phases of his existence, they saw not the angel within the sanctu- 
ary of his spirit, and the hand that, pointing upward to the crown, 

pointed also to the words — " This awaits thee in Heaven.'' 
51 



ANNE T. WILBUH. 



To translate well is a rare accomplishment. So far as mere style and 
language are concerned, translation is more difficult than original compo- 
sition. Among the few who have excelled in this line, may be mentioned 
the lady whose name stands at the head of this article. Her translations 
have, indeed, the ease and grace and the idiomatic propriety of writings 
of a native growth. These translations have been from the popular litera- 
ture of Europe, chiefly from the French, and have consisted mostly of 
short tales. Some of them have been published in the form of small 
volumes; others have appeared in periodicals of different kinds. 

Besides her translations. Miss Wilbur has written occasionally original 
articles for the magazines and weekly papers, under the name of "Florence 
Leigh," and has performed a considerable amount of editorial labour. As 
editor of the "Ladies' Magazine, ' published in Boston, in 1848, and of 
the " Ladies' Casket," published the same year, in Lowell, she secured 
for those works many valuable contributors. 

Miss Wilbur was born at Wendell, Massachusetts, in 1817. She is 
the daughter of the Rev. Henry Wilbur, of Newburyport, extensively 
known as a lecturer on astronomy, and as the originator of Bible Classes. 
The secluded life and leisure of a village pastor, led him to take unusual 
pains in the instruction of his oldest child and only daughter. This, and 
the possession of a mind constitutionally precocious, led to very early 
attempts at authorship — the first, a school-girl feat, achieved at the age 
of eleven, entitled " Grimalkin, a Tragedy," and ending in the destruction 
of an entire family of rats. 

Miss Wilbur began, at the age of fifteen, to teach, and has been engaged 
as a teacher until within the last three or four years, which have been 
occupied with literary labour. Her residence is Newburyport, Massa- 
chusetts. 

- » 

(402) 



ANNE T. WILBUR. 



ALICE YERNON. 



403 



A PLEASANT company were assembled around the breakfast-table, 
and discussing their plans for the day. In some casual conversa- 
tion, I heard a careless mention of a name very familiar and very 
dear — "Mrs. Vernon." I reflected a moment, — it was a name 
closely associated in my mind with the past, yet how, I could not 
immediately recall. Suddenly it came like a lightning flash — 
Alice Vernon, once Alice Maitland. I inquired of the individual 
who had spoken, and learnt that my early friend had indeed been 
the subject of conversation. I obtained her address, and sallied 
forth to find her, sure of a welcome, though we had not met for 
years. 

A great military and civic procession was passing through the 
streets, and it was with some difficulty that I made my way into a 
retired street in a distant part of the city. There, in a modest 
dwelling, I found my old friend Alice. Herself and a widowed 
mother were the only occupants. It was scantily furnished, but 
bore the impress of that exquisite taste which a truly refined 
woman can ttirow over the meanest abode, giving to poverty attrac- 
tions which wealth does not always bestow upon its palaces. Alice 
had, in our school-days, been a favourite, — not that she was beau- 
tiful, but her simplicity of character, her upright and truthful 
mind, her sincere and strong aff'ections, had won friends, lasting 
and true, such as she well knew how to value. On leaving school 
we had been separated, and had since rarely met — nevertheless, 
with that interest which those who have been educated together 
often continue to feel for each other through life, we had not failed 
to make inquiries which kept us informed of the after-fate of those 
most dear to us. That of Alice had been so unlike the even and 
calm lot which we had planned for her, as to have excited the 
surprise and wonder of us all. 

I found her busily at work, though the street was full of the 
gathering multitude, and a branch of the procession was forming 



404 ANNE T. WILBUR. 

immediately beneath the winclow. After the first cordial greetings 
had passed, I said to her, with the authoi-itj which, as somewhat 
her senior in years, I had been accustomed to exercise : " Come, 
Alice, put away your work for the day, and let me take you with 
me. I am alone, and want an escort. Your cheek is pale, and 
this fresh pure air will give it a little colour." " Go, Alice," said 
her mother, "Florence is right; it will do you good." A word 
from her mother was enough, and very soon we were threading our 
way through the crowded streets, and talking with the freedom and 
confidence of old times. 

" Tell me your whole sad story, dearest," I said, "while we are 
alone, for but an allusion to it has now and then reached me, and 
I would know it all from yourself." An expression of sudden pain 
crossed the countenance of my friend, but it passed away, and her 
full heart was relieved by the recital, and happier, I knew, for my 
sympathy. 

She had married young. One of whom we had often heard her 
speak as a dear friend and brother, but in a station so far above 
her, that she had never dreamed of aspiring to share it, or that he 
could turn from the gay and brilliant flowers vfhich lavished their 
sweets around him, to cull a modest and humble violet, had found 
more fragrance and beauty in the latter, and passed by the gor- 
geous parterre, to pluck this and place it in his bosom. Her married 
life commenced under the happiest auspices. Ernest Vernon Avas 
proud, but his pride took the right direction ; — he was proud of his 
own discernment in having transplanted the floweret which other- 
wise might have bloomed unheeded, or " wasted its sweetness on 
the desert air." All the luxuries which wealth could purchase 
were lavished upon his fair young wife ; — he never seemed happy 
away from her, and bestowed all his love and confidence where it 
was gratefully appreciated and returned a thousand-fold. Ernest 
was, like herself, an only child, and their happiness thus centred 
in each other. No wonder that Alice almost worshipped him. He 
had always been her beau ideal of manly beauty, and now that 
those radiant eyes looked lovingly upon her, her heart often ached 



ANNE T. WILBUR. 405 

with excess of happiness, and "with that fear which, in a world of 
change, conies like a cloud between us and perfect repose, — 

That faint sense of parting, such as clings 
To earthly love and joy in loveliest things. 

Ernest, too, was happy, for his bride was a realization of the 
description of his favourite poet, the embodiment of his ideas of 
perfection in woman. 

He saw her upon nearer view 

A spirit, yet a woman too; 

Her household motions bright and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A creature not too light or good, 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

But I must pass briefly over those halcyon days, and come to 
the dark cloud which first and finally intercepted the sunlight. 
Ernest had, as I have said, the most entire confidence in his wife, 
and was accustomed to reveal to her every transaction in his busi- 
ness which could awaken her interest or command her sympathy. 
On one occasion he confided to her a secret in which the welfare 
and reputation of one of his dearest friends was concerned. An- 
other, who had, through a different channel, got possession of a clue 
to this, and who supposed Mrs. Vernon must be aware of it, had, 
in conversation with her, designedly asked a direct question, to 
which she could not with truth give the denial with which she 
would gladly have put an end to his suspicions. He immediately 
made use of his information, and quoted her authority to con- 
firm it. 

Ernest returned home from an absence of a few days, to find his 
cherished secret, involving the honour of his friend, public, coupled 
with the name of his wife as the authority. He was hasty and 
passionate ; defects which are oftener those of a truly noble and 
generous soul than a secret and persevering vindictiveness. In his 
anger he forgot that the silence and passiveness with which Alice 
received his reproaches might be evidences of suffering rather than 



406 ANNE T. AVIL BUR. 

of guilt, and used language ■which, as she thought, proved that his 
affections were -withdrawn from her for ever. 

Days passed away, and there was no relenting ; Ernest was too 
proud to ask an explanation, and Alice scarcely knew of what she 
■was accused. It Avas evident to her that her husband Avas alienated 
from her, no matter how, and in silence and in secrecy she formed 
her plans and executed them. 

It was a bright, beautiful summer morning, when Alice Yernon 
stole softly doAvn in the early twilight to bid adieu to the haunts 
and associations of her happiest hours. Her flowers looked lov- 
ingly upon her, and the tears that gemmed each petal and leaf 
were those of gratitude only, not sorrow. All was joyous, save the 
heart of one who was now, like Eve, to say farewell to her Para- 
dise. But, unlike Eve, she went forth alone, Avith no manly arm 
to shield her, and no loving heart to interpose betAVCcn herself and 
life's sorroAvs. The lovely cottage home she Avas leaAdng had never 
seemed more attractive : yet she had scarcely realized that it Avas 
her own, so far had it exceeded her wildest expectations. With a 
few valued relics, and simple articles of clothing, Avhich had been a 
part of her own poor doAvry, she sought her humble city home. 

Months, years had passed away. The slight diiference which 
had produced this alienation had been increased by professed 
friends, — angry words borne to the ears of the parties, and exag- 
gerated in the repetition. Alice's only defensive ■weapon had been 
silence. It may seem strange that such a bond could thus easily 
be broken. One who is deeply read in the mysteries of love mat- 
ters has, hoAvever, said : 

Alas ! how slight a cause may move 
Dissension between hearts that love ; — 
Hearts that the Avorld in vain has tried, 
And sorrow but more closely tied ; 
A something light as air, a look, 

A word unkind or wrongly taken, 
A love ! that tempests never shook, 

A breath, a touch like this has shaken. 

We had pursued our way around the common, now one sea of 



ANNE T. WILBUR. 4O7 

heads, and glittering with military costumes and arms. The excite- 
ment Avas contagious, and we could not but reflect the gayety and 
animation which shone in every feature of the various physiogno- 
mies about us. It was nearly time, however, to begin to look for 
the grand event of the day — the procession — so we found a quiet 
spot where we could see the pageant, and sat down by an open 
window to breathe the cool air, and listen to the distant music. 

With thrilling fife and pealing drum, 1 

And clashing horn, they come ! they come ! 

Gay banners waved, and white plumes danced in the breeze ; shin- 
ing arms, and glittering epaulets ; regalia gorgeous in purple and 
gold ; noble steeds and noble riders — came thronging and pouring 
through the narrow street, and, as they passed slowly along often 
pausing, as impeded by some obstacle, we could read the motto on 
every banner, and catch the expression of every face. As I looked 
at Alice I saw that she had given herself wholly to the excitement 
of the scene ; her face was radiant with pleasure ; and her cheek 
but now pale, crimsoned with the flush of unaccustomed interest. 
One must indeed have been a stoic not to have shared in the general 
enthusiasm and joy. 

My eyes fairly ached with gazing on the brilliant array, and I 
had turned them for relief once more upon the face of my new 
found friend, when I saw her lip quiver convulsively, and the bloom 
which I had but now noticed, suddenly leave her cheek as colour- 
less as before. She moved hastily from the window, and looking 
up to me imploringly, said: "Take me away, Florence." As I 
passed the window I caught a glimpse of a noble-looking horseman 
in the uniform of one of the principal companies, and the emotion 
which his fine features revealed, gave me a clue to that of my friend. 

Poor Alice ! Alone in the parlour, and away from the sights 
which had just before given her such unwonted pleasure, she threw 
herself on the sofa, and wept bitterly. " Dear Florence, you will 
think me childish," she said, when the violence of the first pas- 
sionate burst of feeling had spent itself in tears ; " but you must 
have seen him — my Ernest, my noble, my beloved husband. Oh, 



408 ANNE T. WILBUR. 

Florence, you know not how many hours of bitterness and tears I 
have spent in my solitude for him. I ought not to have come with 
you to-day, for I had a presentiment of this. Go, dear Florence, 
and leave me alone with my heart till its wild beatings are hushed." 

There are times when grief is too deep and sacred to endure the 
presence of a spectator, and solitude is then a luxury to the sorrow- 
ing — so I obeyed. 

The bright day was drawing to its close, and the last remnant 
of that long and motley train was filing through the street, when 
the bell was rung hastily, as if by an impatient hand. The ser- 
vants were not to be found on an occasion like this, so I opened 
the door : a face, of which I had before caught a hasty glimpse, 
once more met my eye, and I knew that Ernest Vernon stood 
before me. " Is Alice ! Mrs. Vernon, here?" asked he, and on my 
replying in the affirmative, followed me to the room where I had 
left her. I opened the door, and said gently, " Shall I come, 
Alice?" Without waiting for her reply, Ernest stepped forward 
and repeated, "Alice." She hurriedly looked up, and with a cry 
of joy, sprang into his arms, and was clasped to his heart. There 
was no need of an explanation, for each read in the face of the 
other restored confidence, and full forgiveness of all the past. 



ELIZA L. SPROAT. 



Miss Sproat is known almost exclusively as a poet. All the prose 
that she has published, amounting at most to not more than three or four 
contributions to annuals and magazines, is so essentially poetical, that it 
seemed a matter of doubt, whether to include her name at all in the 
present volume. Whether prose or poetry, however, her writings are 
among the most original and the most beautiful that our current literature 
affords. The article " Love versus Cupid," which appeared in the June 
number of Sartain, for 1849, is alone sufficient to stamp the author as a 
woman of high genius. 

Miss Sproat is still very young. She is a native, and has always been 
a resident, of Philadelphia. The extract which follows, is from the 
Christian Keepsake for 1847. It is the first piece she ever published. 



THE ENCHANTED LUTE. 

Once, in the old days of the fairj dominion, two sisters sat 
beneath an ancient vine-entangled tree, ■which overhung an old 
stone fountain. 

They were beautiful ; but why should they hide their beauty in 
this lonely solitude ? — yet not lonely, for Mira bore in her hand a 
marvellous talisman — an enchanted lute, whose lightest touch had 
power to waken the voices of a thousand unseen spirits, and reveal 
to mortal eye and ear the wonderful sealed mysteries of Nature. 
As yet, its power had never been challenged ; but the sisters ' had 
been told, that if, at the dim solemn hour between the night and 
morning, they would venture to sit alone by the haunted fountain, 
62 ^109) 



410 ELIZA L. SPRO AT. 

thej could find tlie key to its music ; that they could then discover 
the master-tone which should rule their future destiny. 

For a time they sat in awe ; for, as the night-breeze swept over 
the instrument, they were oppressed with a strange sense of the 
surrounding invisible presence. 

"Let us try the spell," at length said Mira; "a little low 
sound is rising in my heart, which may be the key to our music." 

"Pause yet a moment," whispered Ernesta, "oh! pause, my 
sister, and think that of all the great world's harmony, the tone 
you choose this day must rule your life for ever." 

" I have no fear," said Mira, touching the outer chord. 

A deep harsh note arose from the instrument : the trees reared 
their heads towards the sky, and the night- winds raised their voices. 
The weak vines in their dreaming clasped the trees convulsively, 
and seemed striving to climb to their summits. . 

Mira saw gleaming eyes in the darkness, and heard the murmur 
of strife in the air : even the very grass-blades jostled each other, 
as they stood side by side. 

"Ah!" said Mira, shuddering, "this is Ambition — this is not 
the master-tone which should rule the world." 

With a trembling hand she touched the second chord. A faint 
indefinite sound, neither music nor discord, played around the lute. 
The trees swung carelessly, and the vines loosed their hold ; the 
clear waters stagnated ; the air was filled with heavy vapour ; and 
all the while there issued from the lute the dull monotonous tone of 
indolent Content. "That is not music," said Mira indignantly. 

" Once more, my sister," said Ernesta; and again she tried the 
chords. 

A flash like sunlight played through the darkness ; — a sweet 
rich strain arose from the lute, and a richer, deeper, sweeter 
music faintly re-echoed the notes around. The waters smiled and 
murmured ; the little flowers laid their cheeks against each other 
li'vc happy sleeping children ; each created thing responded to the 
all-pervading music of Love. 

" This is the tone," cried Mira enchanted; — "this is the one 
great master-key of existence : it is not to toil, nor to strive, nor 



ELIZA L. SPROAT. 411 

to battle, that we are placed in this world of pleasure — it is onlj to 
live and to love." 

" Mira," said her sister earnestly, "try them once again." 

" Not again," said Mira ; " I have found my life." 

"But I thought, -when you touched the last sweet chord, that a 
note still sweeter fell upon my ear; try it, Mira !" 

But Mira heard her not — her heart was filled with the music of 
love ; she had chosen her lot, and over her the untried chords had 
power no more. 

The hour had passed, and the Night Angel was departing. As 
he retired, he rolled away the soft dark mists in which he had ten- 
derly enveloped the sleeping earth. The violets opened their eyes 
in time to catch a glimpse of the brighter eyes which all night long 
had watched their slumbers ; the birds waked too, and looked out 
from their nests ; — but the Night Angel stood with his finger on his 
lip, and all the world was silent. 

Speeding through the dim air came the Angel of the Morning. 
With a pencil of flame he silently streaked the eastern sky, and 
fringed the clouds for the reception of the monarch. 

The morning breezes grew uneasy in their hiding-places ; the 
hushed waters trembled with eagerness ; the flowers held their 
breath ; the birds seemed bursting with long-pent melody ; — but 
still, the Night Angel stood with his finger on his lip, and all the 
earth waited in silence. 

Silence ! 

The Sun ! the Sun ! with a warm sudden kiss he greets the 
earth — the spell of the night is broken ; all nature rises with a 
shout, and from a thousand thousand tongues bursts forth the 
imprisoned melody. How the trees wave their arms ! how the 
singing waters glance and sparkle ! how the forest gossips nod 
their heads to one another, and the busy happy breezes hurry to 
and fro with sweet gratulations borne from flower to flower !♦ All 
motion — all happiness ; every nook and corner of the great earth 
filled with life and love. 

"'Ernesta," said her sister, " art thou still faithless? Does not 



412 ELIZA L. SPROAT. 

this blessed morning teach thee that there is no one tone in earth 
or heaven so worthy to rule as Love ?" 

"Touch the lute once more," said Ernesta ; "onlj try once 
more." 

Again those sweet strains rose in the morning air, and again to 
the listening ear of Ernesta rose that faint clear echo-tone, so 
strange, so pure, so far surpassing music ever heard before by 
mortal ear, that her raptured sense could scarcely endure the 
excess of melody. 

But Mira's ears were filled with the music of the heart, and she 
could not hear these higher seraph strains. 

"Now, Mira," said Ernesta, "look around, and tell me truly 
what thou seest." 

" I see a beautiful, happy world, full of rich sunlight and flowers, 
and thronged with good, loving faii-ies roaming here and there, 
tending the sickening plants and supporting the delicate flovrer- 
buds ; helping the young birds in their flight, and teaching all 
created things to live and to love. And what sees my sister 
Ernesta?" 

" I see, between heaven and earth, God's holy cherubim ascend- 
ing and descending ; searching out the weary fainting spirits 
throughout the world, and bearing to them balm from Paradise. 
I see them rising with the prayers of the afilicted, and returning 
with sweet answers fresh from Heaven. And sometimes I see a 
newly perfected, enfranchised soul, borne rejoicing by the angels 
to the Throne, to dwell for ever in the presence of the Fountain of 
Love transcendent. But, Mira, look up, and tell me what you 
see." 

" When I look up, I see nothing, because of the dazzling 
sunlight." 

"Ah! but through the sunlight I can see the stars ! the clear 
stars, that ever shine and never weary. And hark ! From high, 
above the stars, floats down the trancing echo-tone. 'Tis the voice 
of the angels with their harps — they answer my heaven-yearning 
lute ! 'Tis the great master-tone which rules the universe — the 
music of the soul !" 



SUSAN FENIMORE COOPER. 



Miss Cooper is a native and resident of Cooperstown, New York, and 
a daughter of the great American novelist. Her first publication, *' Rural 
Hours," a splendid octavo issued by Putnam in 1850, gave her at once a 
high rank among our female authors. It is in the form of a journal, 
running through one entire year, and giving an account of the most nota- 
ble sights and sounds of country life. Miss Cooper has an observant eye, 
and a happy faculty of making her descriptions interesting by selecting 
the right objects, instead of the too common method of extravagant embel- 
lishment. She never gets into ecstacies, and sees nothing which anybody 
else might not see who walked through the same fields after her. Her 
work accordingly contains an admirable portraiture of American out-door 
life, just as it is, with no colouring but that which every object necessarily 
receives in passing through a contemplative and cultivated mind. Miss 
Cooper has also edited a work called " Country Rambles in England," and 
has in press (1854) a new volume of her own, under the title of '' Fields 
Old and New, or the Rhyme and Reason of Country Life." 



SPIDERS. 

Upon one of these violets we found a handsome coloured spider, 
one of the kind that live on flowers and take their colour from 
them ; but this was unusually large. Its body was of the size of 
a well-grown pea, and of a bright lemon colour ; its legs were also 
yellow, and altogether it was one of the most showy-coloured 
spiders we have seen in a long time. Scarlet or red ones still 
larger, are found, however, near New York. But, in their gayest 
aspect, these creatures are repulsive. It gives one a chilling idea 
of the gloomy solitude of a prison, when we remember that spiders 
have actually been petted by men shut out from better companion- 

(413) 



414 SUSANFENIMORECOOrER. 

ship. They are a very common insect with us, and on that account 
more annoying than any other that is found here. Some of them, 
"with great black bodies, are of a formidable size. These haunt 
cellars, barns, and churches, and appear occasionally in inhabited 
rooms. There is a black spider of this kind, with a body said 
to be an inch long, and legs double that length, found in the Palace 
of Hampton Court, in England, which, it will be remembered, 
belonged to Cardinal Wolsey, and these great creatures are called 
" Cardinals" there, being considered by some people as peculiar to 
that building. A huge spider, by-the-bye, with her intricate web 
and snares, would form no bad emblem of a courtier and diplo- 
matist, of the stamp of Cardinal Wolsey. He certainly took "hold 
with his hands, in kings' palaces," and did his share of mischief 
there. 

Few people like spiders. No doubt these insects must have their 
merits and their uses, since none of God's creatures are made in 
vain ; all living things are endowed wdth instincts more or less 
admirable ; but the spider's plotting, creeping w^ays, and a sort of 
wicked expression about him, lead one to dislike him as a near 
neighbour. In a battle between a spider and a fly, one always 
sides with the fly, and yet of the two, the last is certainly the most 
troublesome insect to man. But the fly is frank and free in all his 
doings ; he seeks his food openly, and he pursues his pastimes 
openly ; suspicions of others or covert designs against them are 
quite unknown to him, and there is something almost confiding in 
the way in which he sails around you, when a single stroke of your 
hand might destroy him. The spider, on the contrary, lives by 
snares and plots ; he is at the same time very designing and very 
suspicious, both cowardly and fierce ; he always moves stealthily, 
as though among enemies, retreating before the least appearance 
of danger, solitary and morose, holding no communion with his 
fellows. His whole appearance corresponds with this character, 
and it is not surprising, therefore, that while the fly is more mis- 
chievous to us than the spider, we yet look upon the first with more 
favour than the last ; for it is a natural impulse of the human 
heart to prefer that which is open and confiding to that which is 



SUSAN FENI MORE COOPER. 415 

wily and suspicious, even in the brute creation. The cunning and 
designing man himself will, at times, find a feeling of respect and 
regard for the guileless and generous stealing over him, his heart, 
as it were, giving the lie to his life. 

Some two or three centuries since, when people came to this 
continent from the Old World in search of gold, oddly enough, it 
was considered a good sign of success when they met with spiders ! 
It would be difficult to say why they cherished this fancy ; but 
according to that old worthy, Hakluyt, when Martin Frobisher 
and his party landed on Cumberland Island, in quest of gold, their 
expectations were much increased by finding there numbers of 
spiders, "which, as many affirm, are signs of great store of 
gold." 



HUMMINa-BIRDS. 

Humming-birds are particularly partial to the evening hours. 
One is sure to find them now toward sunset, fluttering about their 
favourite plants ; often there are several together among the flow- 
ers of the same bush, betraying themselves, though unseen, by the 
trembling of the leaves and blossoms. They are extremely fond 
of the Missouri currant — of all the early flowers, it is the greatest 
favourite with them ; they are fond of the lilacs also, but do not 
care much for the syringa ; to the columbine they are partial, to 
the bee larkspur also, with the wild bergamot or Oswego tea, the 
speckled jewels, scarlet trumpet-flower, red clover, honeysuckle, 
and the lychnis tribe. There is something in the form of these 
tube-shape blossoms, whether small or great, which suits their long, 
slender bills, and possibly, for the same reason, the bees cannot 
find such easy access to the honey, and leave more in these than 
in the open flowers. To the lily the humming-bird pays only a 
passing compliment, and seems to prefer the great tiger-lily to the 
other varieties ; the rose he seldom visits ; he will leave these 
stately blossoms any day for a head of the common red clover, in 



416 SUSAN FENIMORE COOPER. 

wliich lie especially delights. Often of a summer's evening have 
we watched the humming-birds flitting about the meadows, passing 
from one tuft of clover to another, then resting a moment on a 
tall spear of timothy grass, then off again to fresh clover, scarcely 
touching the other flowers, and continuing frequently in the same 
field untifthe very latest twilight. 

Mr. Tupper, in his paper on "Beauty," pays a pretty compli- 
ment to the humming-bird. Personifying Beauty, he says, she 

"Fluttereth into the tulip with the humming-bird." 

But, although these little creatures are with us during the tulip 
season, it may be doubted if they feed on these gaudy blossoms^ 
On first reading the passage, this association struck us as one with 
which we were not familiar ; had it been the trumpet-flower, nothing 
would have been more natural, for these dainty birds are for ever 
fluttering about the noble scarlet blossoms of that plant, as we all 
know, but the tulip did not seem quite in place in this connexion. 
Anxious to know whether we had deceived ourselves, Ave have now 
watched the humming-birds for several seasons, and, as yet, have 
never seen one in a tulip, while we have often observed them pass 
these for other flowers. Possibly this may have been accidental, 
or other varieties of the humming-bird may have a diff"erent taste 
from our own, and one cannot positively assert that this little 
creature never feeds on the tulip, without more general examina- 
tion. But there is something in the upright position of that flower 
which, added to its size, leads one to believe that it must be an 
inconvenient blossom for the humming-bird, Avho generally seems 
to prefer nodding or drooping flowers, if they are at all large, 
always feeding on the wing as he does, and never alighting, like 
butterflies and bees, on the petals. Altogether, we are inclined to 
believe that if the distinguished author of Proverbial Philosophy 
had been intimate with our little neighbour, he would have placed 
him in some other native plant, and not in the Asiatic tulip, to 
which he seems rather indifferent. The point is a very trifling one, 
no doubt, and it is extremely bold, to find fault with our betters ; 
but in the first place, we are busying ourselves wholly with triflea 



SUSAN FENIMORE COOPER. 417 

just now. and then the great work in question has been a source 
of so much pleasure and advantage to half the world, that no one 
heeds the misplaced tulip, unless it be some rustic bird-fancier. By 
supposing the floAver of the tulip-tree to be meant, the question 
would be entirely settled to the satisfaction of author, reader, and 
humming-bird also, who is very partial to those handsome blossoms 
of his native woods. 

It is often supposed that our little friend seeks only the most fra- 
grant flowers ; the blossoms on the Western Prairies, those of Wis- 
consin at least, and probably others also, are said to have but little 
perfume, and it is observed that the humming-bird is a stranger 
there, albeit those wilds are a perfect sea of flowers during the 
spring and summer months. But the amount of honey in a plant has 
nothing to do with its perfume, for we daily see the humming-birds 
neglecting the rose and the white lily, while many of their most 
favourite flowers, such as the scarlet honeysuckle, the columbine, 
the lychnis tribe, the trumpet flower, and speckled jewels, have no 
perfume at all. Other pet blossoms of theirs, however, are very 
fragrant, as the highly-scented Missouri currant, for instance, and 
the red clover, but their object seems to be quite independent of 
this particular quality in a plant. 

The fancy these little creatures have for perching on a dead twig 
is very mai-ked ; you seldom see them alight elsewhere, and the 
fact that a leafless branch projects from a bush, seems enough to 
invite them to rest ; it was but yesterday we saw two males sitting 
upon the same dead branch of a honeysuckle beneath the window. 
And last summer, there chanced to be a little dead twig, at the 
highest point of a locust-tree, in sight from the house, which was a 
favourite perching spot of theirs for some weeks ; possibly it was 
the same bird, or the same pair, who frequented it, but scarcely a 
day passed without a tiny little creature of the tribe being fre- 
quently seen there. Perhaps there may have been a nest close at 
hand, but they build so cunningly, making their nests look so much 
like a common bunch of moss or lichen, that they are seldom dis- 
covered, although they often build about gardens, and usually at 
no great height ; we have known a nest found in a lilac-bush, and 

53 



418 SUSAN FENIMORE COOPER. 

sometimes they are even satisfied with a tall coarse weed ; in the 
■woods, they are said to prefer a white oak sapling, seldom building, 
however, more than ten feet from the ground. 

Though so diminutive, they are bold and fearless, making very 
good battle when necessary, and going about generally in a very 
careless, confident way. They fly into houses more frequently 
than any other bird, sometimes attracted by plants or flowers 
within, often apparently by accident, or for the purpose of explor- 
ing. The country people have a saying that when a humming-bird 
flies in at a window he brings a love message for some one in the 
house ; a pretty fancy, certainly, for Cupid himself could not have 
desired a daintier avant courier. Unfortunately, this trick of fly- 
ing in at the windows is often a very serious and fatal one to the 
poor little creatures themselves, whatever felicity it may bring to 
the Romeo and Juliet of the neighbourhood ; for they usually 
quiver about against the ceiling until quite stunned and exhausted, 
and unless they are caught and set at liberty, soon destroy them- 
selves in this way. We have repeatedly known them found dead 
in rooms little used, that had been opened to air, and which they 
had entered unperceived. 



WEEDS. 



The word weed varies much with circumstances ; at times, we 
even apply it to the beautiful flower or the useful herb. A plant 
may be a Aveed, because it is noxious, or fetid, or unsightly, or 
troublesome, but it is rare indeed that all these faults are united in 
one individual of the vegetable race. Often the unsightly, or fetid, 
or even the poisonous plant, is useful, or it may be interesting from 
some peculiarity ; and on the other hand, many others, troublesome 
from their numbers, bear pleasing flowers, taken singly. Upon 
the whole, it is not so much a natural defect which marks the weed, 
as a certain impertinent, intrusive character in these plants ; a 
want of modesty, a habit of showing themselves forward upon 



SUSANFENIMORECOOPER. 419 

ground where they are not needed, rooting themselves in soil in- 
tended for better things, for plants more useful, more fragrant, or 
more beautiful. Thus the corn-cockle bears a fine flower, not 
unlike the mullein-pink of the garden, but then it springs up among 
the precious wheat, taking the place of the grain, and it is a weed ; 
the flower of the thistle is handsome in itself, but it is useless, and 
it pushes forward in throngs by the wayside until we are weary 
of seeing it, and everybody makes war upon it ; the common St. 
John's wort, again, has a pretty yellow blossom, and it has its uses 
also as a simple, but it is injurious to the cattle, and yet it is so 
obstinately tenacious of a place among the grasses, that it is found 
in every meadow, and we quarrel with it as a weed. 

These noxious plants have come unbidden to us, with the grains 
and grasses of the Old World, the evil with the good, as usual in 
this world of probation — the wheat and tares together." The useful 
plants produce a tenfold blessing upon the labour of man, but the 
weed is also there, ever accompanying his steps, to teach him a 
lesson of humility. Certain plants of this nature — the dock, 
thistle, nettle, &c., &c. — are known to attach themselves especially 
to the path of man ; in widely different soils and climates, they are 
still found at his door. Patient care and toil can alone keep the 
evil within bounds, and it seems doubtful whether it lies within the 
reach of human means entirely to remove from the face of the 
earth one single plant of this peculiar nature, much less all their 
varieties. Has any one, even of the most noxious sorts, ever been 
utterly destroyed ? Agriculture, with all the pride and power of 
science now at her command, has apparently accomplished but 
little in this way. Egypt and China are said to be countries in 
which weeds are comparatively rare ; both regions have long been 
in a high state of cultivation, filled to overflowing with a hungry 
population, which neglects scarce a rood of the soil, and yet even 
in those lands, even upon the banks of the Nile, where the crops 
succeed each other without any interval throughout the whole year, 
leaving no time for weeds to extend themselves ; even there, these 
noxious plants are not unknown, and the moment the soil is aban- 
doned, only for a season, they return with renewed vigour. 



420 SUSAN PENIMORE COOPER. 

In tins new country, with a fresh soil, and a thinner population, 
we have not only weeds innumerable, but we observe, also, that 
briers and brambles seem to aequire double strength in the neigh- 
bourhood of man ; wo meet them in the primitive forest, here and 
there, but they line our roads and fences, and the woods are no 
sooner felled to make ready for cultivation, than the}' spring up 
in profusion, the first natural produce of the soil. But in this 
world of mercy, the just curse is ever graciously tempered with a 
blessing ; many a grateful fruit, and some of our most delightful 
flowers, grow among the thorns and briars, their fragrance and 
excellence reminding man of the sweets as well as the toils of his 
task. The sweetbriar, more especially, with its simple flower 
and delightful fragrance, unknown in the wilderness, but moving 
onward by the side of the ploughman, would seem, of all others, 
the husbandman's blossom. 



ELIZABETH WETHERELL. 

(SITSAN -WARNER.) 

In the year 1850, a novel in two volumes, under the title of "Tlio 
Wide Wide World/' was sent forth to seek its fortunes. The title-page 
bore upon its face a name unknown to literature, and no special pains 
were taken to herald the work into notoriety. But readers very soon 
began to multiply ; every one who read the book, talked about it, and 
urged its reading upon his neighbours, until, within a year from the time 
of its publication, it had reached a circulation then considered almost un- 
precedented, and everybody was beginning to inquire who is " Elizabeth 
Wetherell V It was one of the most signal instances in recent times of a 
popularity reaching almost to fame, springing up spontaneously, and entirely 
in advance of all the usual organs of public opinion. The tide of favour 
was still farther swelled by the appearance in 1852 of a successor, another 
novel in two volumes, under the title of " Quecchy." The second work 
had nearly all the peculiarities of the first, and reached a still higher mark 
of success. They were both reprinted and very widely circulated in Eng- 
land, and they appear to have been more generally read and to have made 
a deeper impression, both at home and abroad, than any recent American 
works of fiction, except Uncle Tom's Cabin. 

These volumes are without doubt open to criticism. The " North 
British Keview" objects vehemently to carelessness in the diction and to 
" the vulgarity" of some of the characters, and the " Westminster" dis- 
likes of course the pervading religious tone of the books. Not assenting 
to all the criticisms of the " North British," we subscribe most fully to 
the opinion with which the article closes. " The heartiness and sincerity 
with which she dwells upon and describes, in its minutest details, the farm- 
life in America are very delightful, and quite new in their way, which is 
wholly unsentimental and truly national. But the highest qualities of 

(421) 



422 ELIZABETH WETHERELL. 

this lady's mind, as shown in her works, are, first, the heartiness of her 
religion, notwithstanding the mistakes we have noticed; and, secondly, 
the clear understanding, which, having once apprehended Christianity, not 
as a mgre logical conclusion, but as a fact of experience and a living pre- 
sence, is not for an instant to be puzzled by any seeming contradiction. 
This clear-sightedness and the power of expressing it so as to impress 
others, is a very remarkable and unspeakably valuable quality of the 
American mind in matters of religion. Of all religious writers, the Ame- 
ricans are those who have the firmest footing upon this unassailable ground 
of personal experience and the actual facts of nature ; and what our great 
Christian philosopher Butler felt so powerfully, and expressed with so 
much difficulty and obscurity in his immortal ' Analogy,' seems to be an 
ordinary inheritance of the religious mind in America." 

The religious character of the writings of " Elizabeth Wetherell" is cer- 
tainly that which is stamped upon them most deeply. We know no work of 
fiction in which real religion, as it is understood by Evangelical Christians, 
is exhibited with so much truth and force. The story of " Little Ellen 
Montgomery" may in all seriousness be commended as a book to make the 
heart wiser and better. Next to the religious tone of the books, we would 
name their tenderness and pathos. No living writer, not even Mrs. Stowe, 
knows better how to open the fountain of tears, or goes more directly to 
the heart of the reader. Her descriptions and narrations have the par- 
ticularity and the life-like verisimilitude of Defoe, while her delineations 
of character are so eminently individual as to have created the general im- 
pression that they are taken from real life. Her descriptions of country 
life and character, too, are eminently national. 

The North American Review, in a very genial article on the subject, is 
disposed to place this merit above all others, in estimating the value of the 
Wide-Wide-World books. " As a matter of pure judgment, we must place 
their pictures of American country life and character above all their other 
merits, since we know not where, in any language, we shall find their 
graphic truth excelled. When after times would seek a specimen of our 
Doric of this date, Aunt Fortune will stand them in stead ; and no Theo- 
critus of our time will draw a bucolical swain more true to the life than 
Mr. Van Brunt. Even the shadow of Didenhover is a portrait ; we see 
him, though he never appears in the flesh, and we feel him, too, though we 
have never let out a farm ' on shares.' Captain Montgomery is another 
of those invisible persons with whom we are perfectly well acquainted, 
although not a line is given to describing him ; and the ' hateful' clerk 
who wreaks his petty spite upon Ellen's horse, is a character whose truth 
to nature little girls bear witness to, by the hearty indignation with which 
they read the scene. Nancy Vawse is a white Topsy ; Barby a perfect 
type of the American serving-girl, at once selfish and tender, coarse and 
delicate j and we might swell our list of life-like characters a good 



ELIZABETH WETHERELL. 423 

deal further, if their very number did not warn us against being too 
particular." 

After the publication of " Queechy," the author engaged with " Amy 
Lothrop/' who is generally understood to be a younger sister, in preparing 
a scries of children's books, under the general title of " Ellen Montgomery's 
Book Shelf." 

The reader of Elizabeth "Wetherell's novels cannot fail to be struck with 
the extraordinary aptness and pertinency of her Scripture quotations. Her 
intimate acquaintance with the sacred volume, as here indicated, and her 
evident partiality for the study, fitted her in an especial manner for the 
work in which she next engaged, which was evidently a " labour of love." 
This was " The Law and the Testimony," a huge octavo volume of 840 
pages, in which the proof-texts on the great doctrines of Christianity are 
brought together under their separate heads. In hunting up these pas- 
sages, as we learn from the preface, the author had the assistance of her 
"young sister," as in sketching the outline of subjects she had that of 
her father. It is a work of stupendous labour, and of utility commen- 
surate with the pains bestowed upon it. One sincerely desirous of learn- 
ing what the Scriptures teach on any particular topic, can hardly fail to 
be benefited by consulting this work, no matter how familiar with the 
Scriptures he may be already, or how many other helps he may have at 
hand. 

The real name of " Elizabeth Wetherell" is Susan Warner. But as 
she continues to use her nom de plume in all her publications, it has seemed 
but meet to do the same in writing of her. 



424 ELIZABETH WETHERELL, 



LITTLE ELLEN AND THE SHOPMAN. 

"Mamma!" exclaimed Ellen, suddenly starting up, "a bright 
thought has just come into my head ! I'll do it for you, mamma I" 

"Do what?" 

" I'll get the merino and things for you, mamma. You needn't 
smile, — I will, indeed, if you will let me." 

"My dear Ellen," said her mother, "I don't doubt you would, 
if good will only were wanting ; but a great deal of skill and expe- 
rience is necessary for a shopper, and what would you do without 
either ?" 

"But see, mamma," pursued Ellen eagerly, "I'll tell you how 
I'll manage, and I know I can manage very well. You tell me 
exactly what coloured merino you want, and give me a little piece 
to show me how fine it should be, and tell me what price you wish 
to give, and then I'll go to the store and ask them to show me dif- 
ferent pieces, you know, and if I see any I think you would like, 
I'll ask them to give me a little bit of it to show you ; and then I'll 
bring it home, and if you like it, you can give me the money, and 
tell me how many yards you want, and I can go back to the store 
and get it. Why can't I, mamma?" 

" Perhaps you could ; but, my dear child, I am afraid you wouldn't 
like the business." 

" Yes, I should ; indeed, mamma, I should like it dearly if I could 
help you so. Will you let me try, mamma?" 

" I don't like, my child, to venture you alone on such an errand, 
among crowds of people ; I should be uneasy about you." 

"Dear mamma, what would the crowds of people do to me? I 
am not a bit afraid. You know, mamma, I have often taken walks 
alone, — that's nothing new ; and what harm should come to me 
while I am in the store ? You needn't be the least uneasy about me ; 
— may I go?" 

Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but was silent. 

"May I go, mamma?" repeated Ellen. "Let me go at least 
and try what I can do. What do you say, mamma ?" 



ELIZABETH WETHERELL. 425 

" I don't know what to say, my daughter, but I am in difficulty 
on either hand. I will let you go and see what you can do. It 
would be a great relief to me to get this merino by any means." 

" Then shall I go right away, mamma ?" 

" As well now as ever. You are not afraid of the wind ?" 

"I should think not," said Ellen; and away she scampered up 
stairs to get ready. With eager haste she dressed herself; then 
with great care and particularity took her mother's instructions as 
to the article wanted ; and finally set out, sensible that a great 
trust was reposed in her, and feeling busy and important accord- 
ingly. But at the very bottom of Ellen's heart there was a little 
secret doubtfulness respecting her undertaking. She hardly knew 
it was there, but then she couldn't tell what it was that made her 
fingers so inclined to be tremulous while she was dressing, and that 
made her heart beat quicker than it ought, or than was pleasant, 
and one of her cheeks so much hotter than the other. However, 
she set forth upon her errand with a very brisk step, which she 
kept up till on turning a corner she came in sight of the place she 
was going to. Without thinking much about it, Ellen had directed 
her steps to St. Clair & Eleury's. It was one of the largest and 
best stores in the city, and the one where she knew her mother 
generally made her purchases ; and it did not occur to her that it 
might not be the best for her purpose on this occasion. But her 
steps slackened as soon as she came in sight of it, and continued 
to slacken as she drew nearer, and she went up the broad flight of 
marble steps in front of the store very slowly indeed, though they 
were exceedingly low and easy. Pleasure was not certainly the 
uppermost feeling in her mind now ; yet she never thought of turn- 
ing back. She knew that if she could succeed in the object of her 
mission her mother would be relieved from some anxiety ; that was 
enough ; she was bent on accomplishing it. 

Timidly she entered the large hall of entrance. It was full of 

people, and the buzz of business was heard on all sides. Ellen had 

for some time past seldom gone a shopping with her mother, and 

had never been in this store but once or twice before. She had 

not the remotest idea where, or in what apartment of the building, 
54 



426 ELIZABETH WETHERELL. 

the merino counter was situated, and she could see no one to speak 
to. She stood irresolute in the middle of the floor. Everybody 
seemed to be busily engaged mth somebody else ; and whenever an 
opening on one side or another appeared to promise her an oppor- 
tunity, it was sure to be filled up before she could reach it, and, 
disappointed and abashed, she would return to her old station in 
the middle" of the floor. Clerks frequently passed her, crossing the 
store in all directions, but they were always bustling along in a 
great hurry of business ; but they did not seem to notice her at all, 
and were gone before poor Ellen could get her mouth open to speak 
to them. She knew well enough now, poor child, what it was that 
made her cheeks burn as they did, and her heart beat as if it would 
burst its bounds. She felt confused, and almost confounded, by 
the incessant hum of voices, and moving crowd of strange people 
all around her, while her little figure stood alone and unnoticed in 
the midst of them ; and there seemed no prospect that she would 
be able to gain the ear or the eye of a single person. Once she 
determined to accost a man she saw advancing toward her from a 
distance, and actually made up to him for the purpose, but with a 
hurried bow, and "I beg your pardon, Miss!" he brushed past. 
Ellen almost burst into tears. She longed to turn and run out of 
the store, but a faint hope remaining, and an unwillingness to give 
up her undertaking, kept her fast. At length one of the clerks in 
the desk observed her, and remarked to Mr. St. Clair, who stood 
by, " There is a little girl, sir, who seems to be looking for some- 
thing, or waiting for somebody ; she has been standing there a 
good while." Mr. St. Clair, upon this, advanced to poor Ellen's 
relief. 

" What do you wish. Miss ?" he said. 

But Ellen had been so long preparing sentences, trying to utter 
them and failing in the attempt, that now, when an opportunity to 
speak and be heard was given her, the power of speech seemed to 
be gone. 

"Do you wish anything. Miss?" inquired Mr. St. Clair again. 

"Mother sent me," stammered Ellen, — "I wish, if you please, 
sir, — mamma wished me to look at merinoes, sir, if you please." 



ELIZABETH WETHER ELL. 427 

" Is your mamma in the store ?" 

"No, sir," said Ellen, "she is ill and cannot come out, and she 
sent me to look at merinoes for her, if you please, sir." 

"Here, Saunders," said Mr. St. Clair, "show this young lady 
the merinoes." 

Mr. Saunders made his appearance from among a little group 
of clerks, with whom he had been indulging in a few jokes by way 
of relief from the tedium of business. " Come this way," he said 
to Ellen ; and sauntering before her with a rather dissatisfied air, 
led the way out of the entrance hall into another and much larger 
apartment. There were plenty of people here, too, and just as 
busy as those they had quitted. Mr. Saunders having brought 
Ellen to the merino counter, placed himself behind it ; and leaning 
over it and fixing his eyes carelessly upon her, asked what she 
wanted to look at. His tone and manner struck Ellen most un- 
pleasantly, and made her again wish herself out of the store. He 
was a tall, lank young man, with a quantity of fair hair combed 
down on each side of his face, a slovenly exterior, and the most 
disagreeable pair of eyes, Ellen thought, she had ever beheld. 
She could not bear to meet them, and cast down her own. Their 
look was bold, ill-bred, and ill-humoured ; and Ellen felt, though 
she couldn't have told why, that she need not expect either kindness 
or politeness from him. 

" "What do you want to see, little one ?" inquired this gentleman, 
as if he had a business in hand he would like to be rid of. Ellen 
heartily wished he was rid of it, and she, too. " Merinoes, if you 
please," she answered without looking up. 

" Well, what kind of merinoes ? Here are all sorts and descrip- 
tions of merinoes, and I can't pull them all down, you know, for 
you to look at. What kind do you want ?" 

"I don't know without looking," said Ellen, "won't you please 
to show me some?" 

He tossed down several pieces upon the counter, and tumbled 
them about before her. 

" There," said he, " is that anything like what you want ? There's 



428 ELIZABETH WETHEKELL. 

a pink one, — and there's a blue one, — and there's a green one. Is 
that the kind?" 

"This is the kind," said Ellen; "but this isn't the colour I 
want." 

" What colour do you want ?" 

" Something dark, if you please." 

" Well, there, that green's dark ; won't that do ? See, that 
would make up very pretty for you." 

"No," said Ellen, "mamma don't like green." 

" Why don't she come and choose her stuffs herself, then? What 
colour does she like ?" 

" Dark blue, or dark brown, or a nice gray, would do," said 
Ellen, "if it's fine enough." 

"'Dark blue,' or 'dark brown,' or 'a nice gray,' eh! Well, 
she's pretty easy to suit. A dark blue I've showed you already, — 
what's the matter with that ?" 

"It isn't dark enough," said Ellen. 

" Well," said he, discontentedly, pulling down another piece, 
" how'll that do? That's dark enough." 

It was a fine and beautiful piece, very different from those he 
had showed her at first. Even Ellen could see that, and fumbling 
for her little pattern of merino, she compared it with the piece. 
They agreed perfectly as to fineness. 

" What is the price of this ?" she asked, with trembling hope that 
she was going to be rewarded by success for all the trouble of her 
enterprise. 

" Two dollars a yard." 

Her hopes and her countenance fell together. " That's too high," 
she said with a sigh, 

" Then take this other blue ; come, — it's a great deal prettier 
than that dark one, and not so dear; and I know your mother will 
like it better." 

Ellen's cheeks were tingling and her heart throbbing, but she 
couldn't bear to give up. 

" Would you be so good as to show me some gray ?" 

He slowly and ill-humouredly complied, and took down an excel- 



ELIZABETH WETHERELL. 429 

lent piece of dark gray, wliicli Ellen fell in love with at once ; but 
she was again disappointed ; it was fourteen shillings. 

"Well, if you won't take that, take something else," said the 
man ; " you can't have everything at once ; if you will have cheap 
goods, of course you can't have the same quality that you like ; but 
now, here's this other blue, only twelve shillings, and I'll let you 
have it for ten if you'll take it." 

"No, it is too light and too coarse," said Ellen, "mamma wouldn't 
like it." 

"Let me see," said he, seizing her pattern and pretending to 
compare it ; "it's quite as fine as this, if that's all you want." 

" Could you," said Ellen timidly, "give me a little bit of this 
gray to show to mamma?" 

" no !" said he impatiently, tossing over the cloths and throw- 
ing Ellen's pattern on the floor ; " we can't cut up our goods ; if 
people don't choose to buy of us they may go somewhere else, and 
if you cannot decide upon anything I must go and attend to those 
that can. I can't wait here all day." 

" What's the matter, Saunders?" said one of his brother clerks, 
passing him. 

" Why I've been here this half hour showing cloths to a child 
that doesn't know merino from a sheep's back," said he, laughing. 
And some other customers coming up at the moment, he was as 
good as his word, and left Ellen, to attend to them. 

Ellen stood a moment stock still, just where he had left her, 
struggling with her feelings of mortification ; she could not endure 
to let them be seen. Her face was on fire ; her head was dizzy. 
She could not stir at first, and in spite of her utmost efforts she 
could not command back one or two rebel tears that forced their 
way ; she lifted her hand to her face to remove them as quietly as 
possible. 

" What is all this about, my little girl ?" said a strange voice at 
her side. 

Ellen started, and turned her face, with the tears but half wiped 
away, toward the speaker. It was an old gentleman, an odd old 
gentleman, too, she thought ; one she certainly would have been 



4Z0 E L I Z A B E T H W E T H E R E L L . 

rather shy of, if she had seen him under other circumstances. But 
though his face was odd, it looked kindly upon her, and it was a 
kind tone of voice in which his question had been put ; so he 
seemed to her like a friend. " What is all this?" repeated the old 
gentleman. Ellen began to tell what it was, but the pride which 
had forbidden her to weep before strangers gave way at one touch 
of sympathy, and she poured out tears much faster than words as 
she related her story, so that it was some little time before the old 
gentleman could get a clear notion of her case. He waited very 
patiently till she had finished ; but then he set himself in good 
earnest about righting the wrong. " Hallo ! you, sir !" he shouted, 
in a voice that made everybody look round ; " you merino man ! 
come and show your goods : why aren't you at your post, sir ?" — 
as Mr. Saunders came up with an altered countenance — " here's a 
young lady you've left standing unattended to I don't know how 
long ; are these your manners ?" 

" The young lady did not wish anything, I believe, sir," returned 
Mr. Saunders, softly. 

" You know better, you scoundrel," retorted the old gentleman, 
who was in a great passion ; " I saw the whole matter with my 
own eyes. You are a disgrace to the store, sir, and deserve to be 
sent out of it, which you are like enough to be." 

"I really thought, sir," said Mr. Saunders, smoothly, — for he 
knew the old gentleman, and knew very well he was a person that 
must not be offended, — " I really thought — I was not aware, sir, 
that the young lady had any occasion for my services." 

" Well, show your wares, sir, and hold your tongue. Now, my 
dear, what did you want ?" 

" I wanted a little bit of this gray merino, sir, to show to mam- 
ma ; — I couldn't buy it, you know, sir, until I found out whether 
she would like it." 

" Cut a piece, sir, without any words," said the old gentleman. 
Mr. Saunders obeyed. 

" Did you like this best ?" pursued the old gentleman. 

" I liked this dark blue very much, sir, and I thought mamma 
would ; but it's too high." 



ELIZABETH WETHERELL. 431 

"How much is it?" inquired he. 

"Fourteen shillings," replied Mr. Saunders. 

" He said it was two dollars," exclaimed Ellen. 

"I beg pardon," said the crest-fallen Mr. Saunders, "the young 
lady mistook me ; I was speaking of another piece when I said two 
dollars." 

"He said this was two dollars, and the gray fourteen shillings," 
said Ellen. 

"Is the gray fourteen shillings ?" inquired the old gentleman. 

"I think not, sir," answered Mr. Saunders — "I believe not, sir, 
— I think it's only twelve, — I'll inquire, if you please, sir." 

"No, no," said the old gentleman, "I know it was only twelve 
— I know your tricks, sir. Cut a piece off the blue. Now, my dear, 
are there any more pieces of which you would like to take patterns, 
to show your mother ?" 

"No, sir," said the overjoyed Ellen; "I am sure she will like 
one of these." 

" Now, shall we go, then ?" 

"If you please, sir," said Ellen, "I should like to have my bit 
of merino that I brought from home ; mamma wanted me to bring 
it back again." 

"Where is it?" 

" That gentleman threw it on the floor." 

"Do you hear, sir?" said the old gentleman; "find it directly." 

Mr. Saunders found and delivered it, after stooping in search of 
it till he was very red in the face ; and he was left, wishing heartily 
that he had some safe means of revenge, and obliged to come to the 
conclusion that none was within his reach, and that he must stomach 
his indignity in the best manner he could. But Ellen aoid her pro- 
tector went forth most joyously together from the store. 



AMY LOTIIROP. 



" AiMY LoTiiRor," according to uncontradicted tradition, is a younger 
sister of '* Elizabeth Wetherell." She is the author of a novel iu two 
volumes, called by the very unromautic name of "Dollars and Cents," 
and of a sprightly and entertaining series of child's books, under the 
general title of " Ellen IMoutgomery's Book Shelf." In the preparation 
of this series, some little assistance is understood to have been received 
from the older sister, but the main part of the authorship has devolved 
upon '' Amy." 

" Dollars and Cents" appeared in 1852. It was immediately and uni- 
versally recognised as having some relationship to the " Wide-Wide- 
World'' books, though the precise connexion was not known for some time. 
The work was by many attributed to "Elizabeth Wetherell" herself, thus 
showing striking points of similarity. At the same time, the differences 
in style were too great to admit of such a supposition being long enter- 
tained. 

If Amy Lothrop's novel has i\ot the absorbing interest of those with 
which it is associated, it yet has high merit and iuany beauties of its own. 
The author has a peculiarly graceful and delicate play of the fancy, not 
Xiulike, and certainly not unequal to that of the lamented Fanny Forrester. 
8he is moreover a nice observer of character, an intense admirer of the 
be:iutics of external nature, and altogether highly poetical in her tempera- 
ment, notwithstanding the prosaic title which she has chosen for her 
lirst performance. 

Our first quotation is from " Carl Krinken," one of the books from 
"Ellen Montgomery's Book Shelf." The other is from "Dollars and 
Cents." 



(.132) 



AMY LOT II RO p. 433 



THE STORY OF THE PINE CONE. 

" WiiEW !" said the North wind. — " Whew — r — r — r — r — !" 

The fir trees heard him coming, and bowed their tall heads very 
gracefully, as if" to tell the wind he could not do much with them. 
Only some of the little cones who had never blown about a great 
deal, felt frightened, and said the wind made their teeth chatter. 

" Do you think we can stay on ?" asked one little cone ; and the 
others would have said they did'nt know, but the wind gave the tree 
such another shake that their words were lost. 

"Whew — r — r — r — r !" said the wind. 

And again the fir trees bowed to let him pass, and swayed from 
side to side, and the great branches creaked and moaned and 
flung themselves about in a desperate kind of way ; but the leaves 
played sweet music. It was their fashion whenever the wind blew. 

"I think we shall have snow," said the tallest of the fir trees, 
looking over the heads of his companions. 

" The sky is very clear," remarked a very small and inexperienced 
fir, who was so short he could not see much of anything. 

"Yes," said the tall one, "so you think; but there is a great 
deal of sky besides that which is over our heads ; and I can see 
the wind gathering handfuls of snow-clouds which he will fling about 
us presently." 

"Yes," repeated the tall fir, with another graceful bend, "I 
see them — they are coming." 

The evergreens were all sorry to hear this, for nothing depressed 
them so much as snow ; the rain they could generally shake off", — at 
least if it didn't freeze too hard. , 

As for the beeches, they said, if that was the case, they must put 
off" their summer clothes directly. And one little beech, with a 
great eff"ort, did succeed in shaking off" half a dozen green leaves the 
next time the wind came that way. 

" You need not hurry yourselves," said the tall fir, — " this is only 

55 



4^4 AMY LOTlIROr. 

an early storm — tlie Aviutor Avill not couio yot. I can still soo the 
sun for a few niiuutes every day." 

Ami that Avas true. For a foAV minutes the sim shoAved himself 
above the horizon, and then after making a very small areh in the sky 
doAvn he AA'ent again, 'riieii eame the long afternoon of clear t^Yi- 
light ; and the longer night, when the stars threw soft sluulows like 
a young mocnt, and looked ilowu to see their hright eves in the deep 
fiord that lay at the foot of the fir trees. ^j. * * * 

'' IToAV eold you must be up there!" said a little pine Avho Avas 
nearly as high as the tall fir's loAA'er branches. But the fir did not 
hear him, or jun-haps did not take notice, for he Avas looking off at 
the fine prospect. 

*' Yes, it is eold up here," ansAvered one of the fir cones, — " and 
■windy — and there's a great deal of sameness about it. It's just 
snoAV and rain, and Avind and sunshine, and then snoAv again." 

"That's Avhat it is, everyAvhere," said the A\ind as he SAvept by. 

"•I can't help it," said the cone, '* I'm tired of it. 1 Avant to 
travel, and see the Avorld, and be of some use to society. ^Vhat can 
one do in the top of a fir tree ?" 

" Why Avhat can a pine cone do anyAvhere ?" said some of tlie 
beech mast. 

"' The end of a pine cone's existence is not to be eaten up, hoA>'- 
ever," retorted the cone sharply. "Neither am I a pine cone — 
though people Avill call me so. We firs hold our heads pretty high, 
I can tell you. But I Avill tlu-OAV myself into tlie fiord some day, 
and go to sea. I have no doubt I could sail as ay ell as a boat. It 
would be a fine thing to discover ncAV islands, and take possession." 

"'It Avould be very lonely," said a squirrel Avho Avas gathering 
beech mast. 

"Royally so," said tlie pine cone. "There one Avonld be king 
of all the trees." 

" The trees never had but one king, and that Avas a bramble," 
said a reed at the Avater's edge, Avho Avas Avell versed in history. 

"What nonsense you are all talking!" said the tall fir tree, at 
length. "My top leaf is at this moment loaded Avith a snoAV flake; 
there is something sensible for you to think of." 



AMY LOTIIROP. 435 



SPRING WEATHER. 

What is there in some exquisitely fine weather to make one feel 
sad ? It was one of those days of which March has a few, that seem 
to embody the very quintescence of spring ; the sky of the fairest 
and calmest, the grass in the yellow-green transition, the trees 
softened with the swelling buds as with the lightest veil of clothing, 
and showing green or red as flowers or leaves were to come first. In 
sheltered fence-corners or bank-protected hollows, there were tufts 
of grass that might have come from the emerald isle itself; now and 
then a tuft of tiny white flowers — quiet, insignificant little things — 
that the eye sought and rested upon because it was March and not 
June. And even one or two bright-faced dandelions, that had been 
waked up by some extraordinary sunbeam, looked at us smilingly 
from the wayside. The birds were in a twitter of delight and con- 
sultation ; robins and song-sparrows excited each other, and the 
phoebe's gentle note of reproof, and the crow's loud " caw" of disdain 
as he sat on a cedar and bowed his head mockingly, neither calmed 
the spirits nor roused the ire of the warblers — their dignity was safe 
bound up in enthusiasm. On one bush sat a committee of fifty robins ; 
in another, where two sparrows made mysterious darts through the 
evergreen foliage, there might be the nucleus of a nest. The scarce 
stirring air was as soft and delicious as if it had been laid up all 
winter in sachets of satin and sweetness — ^but bouquet nor patchouli 
can approach the unspeakable aroma of early flowers and leaves — 
that indefinable perfume Avhich spring compounds for itself. And 
yet as we breathed it in — and breaths seemed all too short in such 
an atmosphere — the exceeding beauty of everything brought no 
exhilaration, but rather sadness. It might be the association with 
other spring days when our hearts were lighter — a mind somewhat 
out of tone with the season — it might be that the beauty was too 
perfect. Perfection of any kind is too near the contrast. 



CAROLINE ORNE. 



Mrs. Orne has published chiefly through the magazines, in which, 
during the last twenty years, more than a hundred of her tales havo 
appeared. These would make, if collected, several large volumes. Her 
writings are generally of a practical cast, on subjects of every-day life, 
and have been deservedly popular. 

Her early childhood was passed in the most retired part of, at that time, 
a retired country town, Georgetown, Mass. 

Early impressions are seldom effaced, and the first six years of her life 
spent amid rural scenes gave a permanent tone and colouring to her mind. 
She was educated to love birds and flowers, and the children of the family 
were always called to look at a rainbow as an object worthy of peculiar 
admiration. One of her dearest pleasures was to watch, with her sister, 
the early garden-plants, when they first broke through the dark, rich soil. 
But the wild flowers which grew in profusion near the paternal dwelling, 
yielded, if possible, a delight still more vivid. Among these, the violets 
which gemmed the green and sunny slopes, held pre-eminence. Birds 
were still more fondly cherished than flowers, the love bestowed on them, 
like themselves, having more vitality. A number of orioles, or, as they 
were generally called in that vicinity, golden robins, glancing in and out 
of the cloud of snowy or rose-tinted blooms, which covered some old apple- 
tree, was a treat that must have been enjoyed with a similar zest, to be 
truly appreciated. 

Nor were the winter evenings without their pleasures, though books 
were scarce, and newspapers almost unknown. Her maternal grand- 
mother, who was a member of the family, was an accomplished story- 
teller, and she used to listen, spell-bound, to the wild legends, tales of 
Indian warfare, or the trials and hardships of the pioneer's domestic life, 
which were related in a clear, emphatic manner, that gave to them a charm 
and a raciness, which could never have been imparted to a written story. 

(436) 



CAROLINE ORNE. 437 

At a very early age she commenced attempting to write her thoughts. 
She recollects a manuscript ''Picture Book" which was the joint produc- 
tion of her sister, her brother, and herself. It was her part of the task 
to compose the stories ; her sister's, who, for one so young, could very 
neatly execute imitation print, to transfer them to the book ; and her bro- 
ther's, who, only a short time previous, had attained to the dignity of 
jacket and trowsers, to illustrate them with appropriate pen-and-ink 
devices. 

These stories were simple and unpretending, though she was often 
ambitious to press into her service, long, sonorous words. The way she 
managed this was unique. When in a writing mood, she used to select a 
number of words which she considered uncommonly splendid, and each 
of these she made a kind of nucleus round which to weave her thoughts, 
such as they were. Being always written on a slate, they were speedily 
effaced to make room for more. 

The reading of Pope's poetical works formed a new and never-to-be- 
forgotten era of her life. While reading the " Rape of the Lock," the 
aerial sylphs, and the lovely, mischievous sprites, which form its light and 
graceful machinery, seemed constantly hovering round her, while passages 
of other poems, such as the three opening lines of ''Eloisa to Abelard," 

" In these deep solitudes and awful cells, 
Where heavenly, pensive contemplation dwells, 
And ever-musing melancholy reigns," 

haunted her with their plaintive melody, as if chanted by spirit-voices 
close to her ear. 

At the early age of fifteen, necessity compelled her to enter upon the 
practical duties of life. In connexion with her sister, she opened a pri- 
vate school in Salem, Mass., in the mean time devoting what intervals of 
leisure she could obtain in pursuing such studies as would better qualify 
her for her task. Among their pupils was the late Mrs. Judson, whom, 
for a while, they subsequently employed as an assistant. 

The second tale Mrs. Orne ever attempted to write, appeared anony- 
mously in the " Ladies' Magazine," published in Boston, and edited by 
Mrs. Hale. Subsequently other stories from her pen were published in 
different periodicals, all of them anonymously. A very encouraging letter 
received from Isaac C. Pray, in consequence of a story which she sent to 
the "Pearl and G-alaxy," a paper of which he was one of the editors, sti- 
mulated her to devote what leisure she could command to writing, and 
from that time her stories were published in her name. 

Mrs. Orne's maiden name was Chaplin. She has no middle name, 
though it is often printed with the initial " F." This mistake arises from 
there being a Miss Caroline F. Orne, a resident of Cambridgeport, who 
has many years written for publication, though most of her articles have 
been in verse. 

She was mostly educated by her mother, and when, for one term, as a 



438 CAROLINE ORNE. 

kind of finisLing, she, with fear and trembling, on account of her supposed 
deficiencies, entered a justly celebrated school, she, to her surprise, found 
no difficulty in ranking with the first. 

The late Jeremiah Chaplin, D. D. (a cousin to both of her parents), 
who was, for several years. President of Waterville College, corrected the 
first compositions which she ever wrote, which she thought worthy of 
being seen, and the manner in which he pointed out their beauties, as well 
as defects, had a lasting and salutary influence. 

When about six years old, her father removed from Eowley to Salem, 
Mass., where she resided, with a few temporary exceptions, till she was 
married. Since her marriage, except the first four years at Meredith- 
Bridge, she has resided at Wolf boro'. New Hampshire. 

DOCTOR PLUMLEY. 

The boy who liad been sent for Dr. Plumley now returned, and 
with a giggle, wliich his most strenuous efforts could not suppress, 
told us that the Doctor was close at hand. He then retreated to 
a part of the room where his mistress could not have an eye on 
him, and evidently made a violent effort to compose the muscles of 
his face. When the Doctor's footsteps were heard in the entry, 
he braced his whole person and tightly compressed his lips. 

Dr. Plumley, it seems, had recently invented an oil for the hair, 
which he imagined would prove exceedingly efficacious in strength- 
ening the roots, and prevent it from falling off. As time had begun 
to thin his own locks, he was desirous of personally testing its won- 
derful qualities. Having previously settled in his mind the impro- 
bability of being called to exert his medical skill, he made so 
copious an application of the unguent as completely to saturate his 
hair, and then drew on a flannel cap of a pyramidal form to prevent 
the too speedy escape of the volatile aromatics, which he imagined 
would strengthen, while the oleaginous part mollified. In his haste, 
all this escaped his memory, and when, on entering the room, he 
removed his hat in his usual quick and smart manner, thereby 
revealing his singular headgear, and made a brisk bow to each of 
us, the point of his cap nodding in unison, his appearance was so 
exquisitely ludicrous that my risibility got the better of my gravity, 
and I was obliged hastily to retreat behind Agnes. In the mean 
time I stole a glance at the poor boy, who stood convulsed with 
suppressed laughter, the tears streaming down his cheeks. 



CAROLINE ORNE. 439 

" Oh, dear doctor, how glad I am that you've come !" said my 
aunt; ''though I am sorry you've got the headache," glancing at 
his flannel cap. 

"I understand," said he, without noticing her remark, "that 
you have elongated the ligaments of your ankle joint — that is, 
sprained your ankle." 

" Yes, and it pains me so, that I am afraid that the information 
will get into it aforo morning." 

" As it never got into your head, ma'am, there is no great dan- 
ger of its getting into your ankle," he replied, winking at Agnes 
and me. "Be pleased," continued he, seeing my aunt about to 
speak, while he at the same time waved his hand in what he consi- 
dered a very graceful and dignified manner, " be pleased, ma'am, 
to listen to a few observations which I propose to make. I shall 
proceed as systematically with your ankle, ma'am, as if I were 
treating a fever. I shall, however, omit the emetic." 

"Well, I am master glad o' that, for I took some fatt-amatic 
once, and" 

" If you please, ma'am, permit me to proceed without interrup- 
tion with my observations, — I was speaking of a fever. Now, in 
my estimation, to speak metaphorically, a fever is the very pink 
of diseases, and I had rather treat it than any other. However, a 
sprained ankle will do to brighten a man's science in lieu of a bet- 
ter case. In the first place, ma'am, in accordance with the inva- 
riable rules of my practice in all similar cases, I shall apply to the 
part injured, a plaster, the several ingredients of which are all 
eminently calorific, and which in more simple language may be 
called a heater." 

" La, doctor, my ankle is as hot as fire coals now, and that is 
what makes me afraid of the information." 

" But, ma'am, though it were ten times hotter than fire coals, I 
assure you, there is a great deal of latent cold, which will be 
brought to the surface by means of this calorific plaster, which will 
evaporate in the form of perspiration." 

" Well, doctor, I suppose what you say is all right, but you do 
talk so figure^/, that I don't understand more than half you say. 



440 CAROLINE ORNE. 

Now, as you don't pretend to doctor according to the rules of the 
reg'lar faculty, as they call 'em, I don't see the need of your being 
so high flown." 

" I tell you, ma'am, there is a certain dignity in the profession, 
which ought to be supported by a suitable selection of long, sono- 
rous words. But your interruption, ma'am, has broken the conca- 
tenation of my ideas. Pray, Miss Agnes, do you recollect what I 
was speaking of?" 

"Perspiration, I believe, sir." 

"Ay, ay — that word has restored the concatenation. When 
a copious perspiration has ensued, a reaction will be necessary. 
To effect this reaction, I shall apply what I call a refrigeratory 
plaster — in other words, a cooler. I shall, in the next place, in 
order to impart a proper pliancy to the cords, envelop the dis- 
eased part of the limb in a cloth completely saturated in a limpid 
salve, which I call a grand mollification salve, but which you may, 
if you please, term a laxer — the invention of which caused me to 
grow pale by the midnight lamp. The laxer must be succeeded by 
a double compound astrictory, which you will better understand by 
the appellation of bracer, the application of which will complete the 
cure, and make your ankle as much stronger than it was before the 
accident as it was then stronger than a baby's." 



CAROLINE MAY. 



Miss May, one of the sweetest of our female poets, Las written also 
some excellent prose, entitled to consideration, besides a goodly amount 
of editorial labour. Her largest publication, "The American Female 
Poets," in 1848, contains, in the biographical and critical notices prefixed 
to the several extracts, an amount of original matter, sufficient to fill a 
considerable volume. These notices are written with much ability, and, 
together with the selections, they show a sound judgment, a highly cul- 
tivated literary taste, and great freedom and command of language. Miss 
May has also edited one or two annuals, and a volume of elegant extracts, 
called " Treasured Thoughts," which has been quite a favourite. An essay 
on " Handel," which we have had the pleasure of reading in manuscript, 
deserves to rank among the very best specimens of biographical criticism. 
A single introductory paragraph is quoted. The other extract is from the 
"Female Poets." 

Miss May is the daughter of the Kev. Edward Harrison May, who was 
for many years pastor of one of the Dutch Keformed Churches of New York, 
and who is at present Secretary of the American Seamen's Friend Society. 
Her brother, a young artist of fine promise, was one of the chief designers 
and painters of the panorama of Pilgrim's Progress, which has been so 
deservedly popular. Miss May is a resident of New York. 

HANDEL. 

Caelyle truly observes, that "great men, taken up in any way, 
are profitable company. We cannot look, however imperfectly, 
upon a great man, without gaining something from him. lie is the 

56 (4:41) 



442 CAROLINE MAY. 

living light-fountain which it is so good and pleasant to be near." 
Carlyle was thinking of his heroes, — Odin, Mahommed, Dante, 
Shakspeare, Cromwell, — when he said this. Whether he would 
place Handel among his worshipped great men, matters not ; but 
that he would, we have little doubt, for has he not in his own 
strange eloquence said, " Who is there, that in logical words can 
express the effect music has on us ? A kind of inarticulate un- 
fathomable speech, Avhich leads us to the edge of the Infinite, and 
lets us for a moment gaze into that?" Surely, they who can 
silently understand, if they cannot audibly interpret, this unfathom- 
able speech, — who have been led with wonder and admiration to 
gaze into Infinity, will look on Handel as on a hero, and rank his 
genius side by side with that of Shakspeare and Milton. But 
whatever the opinion of others may be, we have always found his 
company profitable. Whether listening to his expressive airs, or 
reading over his rich full choruses (lamenting, as we read, that a 
choir of voices could not spring at once from our grateful and 
delighted heart), we have always felt that, to approach Handel 
was to approach a living fountain of heaven-born harmony. And 
to be near such, is both good and pleasant. 



LUCRETIA AND MAEGAKET DAVIDSON. 

It would be wrong, merely for the sake of chronological order, 
to separate these sweet sisters, who, though not twins by birth, were 
twins in thought, feeling, loveliness, and purity. We wnll sketch 
them together, therefore, while their devoted mother and excellent 
father shall stand at their head. 

Mrs. Davidson was a daughter of Dr. Burnet Miller, a respect- 
able physician in the city of New York, where she was born on the 
27th of June, 1787. Her mother was early left a widow, and 
removed to Dutchess county, where, at the age of sixteen, this 
daughter was married to Dr. Davidson. The greater part of her 
married life was spent at Plattsburg (on Lake Champlain), where 



CAROLINE MAY. 443 

all her children were born, ten in number — eight of whom passed 
before her into heaven. She resided in Plattsburg at the time of 
the battle, August, 1814. The fearful events of that season, and 
her own escapes and adventures, have been narrated by both Mrs. 
Davidson and Margaret, in a fictitious garb. She never could 
speak of them without great excitement ; and invariably wept at 
the sound of martial music. An intimate friend writing of her, 
says — "Mrs. Davidson's appearance and manner when talking 
enthusiastically, as she always did on a favourite subject, could 
never be forgotten. The traces of early beauty were still evident 
in her large dark eyes and her exquisite complexion ; but the great 
charm of her countenance was in its mingled expression of intelli- 
gence and sensibility, varying not unfrequently from deep sadness 
to a playful vivacity of which you would not at first suppose her 
capable." She possessed great elasticity of spirit and vigour of 
mind, which were not at all impaired by the constant pain and 
sufiering she endured. During the last few years of her life, she 
resided alternately at New York, Ballston, and Saratoga Springs. 
At the latter place she died, on the 27th of June, 1844. She had 
long been thought a victim to consumption, but the fearful and 
agonizing disease which terminated her life was a cancer in the 
face. A year before her death, a volume, entitled " Selections from 
the Writings of Mrs. Margaret M. Davidson," was published, with 
a short preface from her distinguished friend, Miss Sedgwick. Her 
poems, however, although they display that tenderness of feeling 
and romantic disposition which characterized her so strongly, are 
too inferior to her daughter's to be quoted with any advantage. 

Dr. Davidson was a man of extensive reading, and possessed a 
taste for natural science. His moral character, however, more than 
his intellectual, renders him worthy of notice. " He was one of 
the most guileless and pure-minded men I ever knew," writes the 
friend we have before quoted. " He was entirely unpretending in 
his manners, and always exhibited a degree of affectionate devoted 
ness to his wife, unusual and touching. His piety was simple, con 
fiding, and unobtrusive ; and his conduct in every situation unre- 
proachable." He died about a year ago. 



444 CAROLINE MAY. 

Sucli were the parents of the inspired poet-children, Lucretia and 
Margaret Davidson. 

Lucretia Maria was born on the 27th of September, 1808, and 
Tras distinguished almost from her birth by an extraordinary deve- 
lopment of the imaginative and sensitive faculties. When she was 
four years old she went to the Plattsburg Academy, and was taught 
to read, and form letters in sand, after the Lancasterian method. 
She began to turn her infant thoughts into measured strains before 
she had learned to write ; and devoting herself with tireless atten- 
tion to her studies both at home and at school, she soon attained 
a wonderful amount of knowledge. It was only in her intel- 
lectual character that she was thus premature. In her inno- 
cence, simplicity, playfulness, and modesty, she was a perfect child. 
Her conscientiousness and dutifulness were remarkably prominent ; 
as they were also with Margaret. Her health, always very 
feeble, began to decline in 1823, when she was taken from school, 
and accompanied her mother on a visit to some relatives in Canada. 
While there she finished "Amir Khan," her longest poem, and 
began a prose tale, called " The Recluse of the Saranac." It 
was about this time that the Hon. Moss Kent, an early friend 
of her mother, became acquainted with Lucretia, and so deej)ly 
interested in her genius, that he resolved, if he could persuade 
her parents to resign her to his care, to afford her every advan- 
tage for improvement that the country could afford. At his 
suggestion, in November, 1824, she was placed under the care of 
Mrs. Willard ; in whose seminary at Troy she remained during the 
winter. The following spring, she was transferred to a boarding 
school at Albany ; but while there her health gave way, and she 
was obliged to return home to Plattsburg. The strength of affec- 
tion, and the skill of physicians, failed, however, to restore her. 
The hand of death alone gave her ease ; and she gently fell asleep 
one morning in August, 1825 ; exactly one month before her seven- 
teenth birthday. President Morse, of the American Society of 
Arts, first published her biography ; and soon after, a delightful 
memoir from the able pen of Miss Sedgwick spread the name of 
Lucretia Davidson far and wide. 



CAROLINE MAY. 445 

Margaret Miller was born on the 26tli of March, 1823. She 
was therefore but two years and a half old when Lucretia died ; an 
event which made a deep impression on her. Although so young, 
she seemed not only to feel her loss, but to understand and appre- 
ciate her sister's character and talents ; and from the first dawn- 
ing of intellect gave evidence that she possessed the same. "By 
the time she was six years old," says her mother, "her language 
assumed an elevated tone ; and her mind seemed filled with poetic 
imagery, blended with veins of religious thought." The sacred writ- 
ings were her daily study. Devotional feelings seemed interwoven 
with her very existence. A longing after heaven, that her spirit 
might be free from the thraldom of earth, was as natural to her, as a 
longing for a holiday to be let loose from school is to other child- 
ren. Yet she enjoyed most fully the quiet pleasures that sur- 
rounded her, and her heart was always swelling with love and gra- 
titude. Sometimes, too, the consciousness of genius, — the inward 
assurance that she was a poet, — would make her think on what 
might be, were she to live ; but the restless thoughts of fame were 
soon lost again, in happier, calmer hopes of an abiding heaven. 

Dear child ! she little knew that so soon both were to be hers — 
"an honoured name" on earth, and "a glorious crown" in heaven. 
Like all true poets, she had a keen relish for the beauties of nature, 
and fed upon them from her infancy. Her earliest home was upon 
the banks of the Saranac, commanding a fine view of Lake Cham- 
plain, and surrounded by the most romantic and picturesque 
scenery ; but wherever she resided, she found something to admire 
and love, upon the earth or in the sky. 

Margaret was always instructed by her mother, whose poetical 
tastes and affectionate disposition made her capable of appreciat- 
ing and sympathizing with the warm impulses and aspiring thoughts 
of her sweet pupil. The love between this mother and daughter 
is a poem of itself. No one can read the memoir of Margaret, by 
Washington Irving, without feeling the heart, if not the eyes, 
overflow. But the links that bound them to each other on earth 
were soon severed ; — for when she was but fifteen years and eight 
months old, this gentle girl died at Ballston, Saratoga county, in 



446 CAROLINE MAY. 

November, 1838. We could not Avisli that she should have stayed 
longer on earth, an exile from her native heaven ; yet, as we listen 
to the soaring strains of her young genius, and are borne upward 
by their energy, we cannot help wondering what would have been 
its thrilling tones and lofty flights, had life unfolded its mysteries 
year after year to her poet's eye. But we thank God she was 
spared the sight of them ; for though we have lost the songs, she 
has missed the sorrow ' 



JULIA C. R. DOUR. 



Mrs. Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr was born at Charleston, South 
Carolina, February 13th, 1825. Before she was two years old, her mother 
died, and her father shortly after removed to New York city, where he 
was engaged in mercantile business until 1830, about which time he 
relinquished his business there, and removed to the state of Yermont. 
She was married, February 22d, 1847, to Seneca M. Dorr, Esq., of 
Chatham Four Corners, Columbia county. New York, at which place she 
has continued to reside ever since. 

She is the only child of William Y. Ripley, and Zulma Caroline Tho- 
mas. Mr. Ripley is a native of Middlebury, Yermont, and has been 
extensively engaged as commission merchant, both in Charleston and New 
York. Miss Thomas was the daughter of Jean Jacques Thomas and Su- 
sanna De Lacy. They were natives of France, and resided, after their 
marriage, in the island of St. Domingo, from which place they fled to 
Charleston, South Carolina, at the time of the insurrection of the slaves 
in that island. 

Mrs. Dorr commenced writing at an early age, and has written much, 
both in poetry and prose. Her publications, however, did not commence 
until 1848. Since that time, a large number of her poems has appeared 
in the different magazines and annuals. Her first attempt at prose, the 
story of " Isabel Leslie," had the singular success of gaining one of the 
hundred dollar prizes proposed by Sartain. 

This success, brilliant certainly for a first attempt, has given a new 
direction, as well as a new impetus to her talents, and she already takes 
a higher position as a prose writer, than that previously won as a poet. 
The extract which follows is from "Hillside Cottage," a beautiful story 
published in one of the annuals for the present year. 

am 



448 JULIA C. R. DORR. 



HILLSIDE COTTAGE. 

There was no spot in all Elmwood that we children so dearly 
loved to visit as Hillside Cottage. No matter where our wander- 
ings began — whether we started for the meadow, in pursuit of the 
rich strawberry — for the thick woods, where the wild flowers 
bloomed so luxuriantly, and the bright scarlet clusters of the par- 
tridge-berry, contrasting beautifully with its dark green leaves, 
sprang up at our feet — for the brook, to gather the shining pebbles, 
or to watch the speckled trout, as they darted swiftly through the 
water — no matter where our wanderings began, it was a strange 
thing if they did not terminate somewhere about the sweet wild 
place where Aunt Mary lived. 

Now, pry thee, gentle reader, do not picture to your "mind's 
eye" a stately mansion with an unpretending name, when you read 
of Hillside Cottage. Neither was it a cottage oniee, with piazzas, 
and columns, and Venetian blinds. It was a low-roofed dwelling, 
and its walls had never been visited by a single touch of the paint- 
er's brush : but the wild vines had sprung up around it, until their 
interlacing tendrils formed a beautiful network nearly all over the 
little building ; and the moss upon the roof had been gathering 
there for many years, growing thicker and greener after the snows 
of each succeeding winter had rested upon it. It stood, as the name 
given it by the villagers indicated, upon the hillside, just in the 
edge of the woods that nearly covered the rounded summit of the 
hill ; a little rivulet danced along, almost beneath the very win- 
dows, and at a short distance below fell over a ledge of rocks, 
forming a small but beautiful cascade, then, tired of its gambols, it 
flowed onwards as demurely as if it had never leaped gayly in the 
sunlight, or frolicked, like a child at play, with every flower that 
bent to kiss its bright waters. We thought there was no place 
where the birds sang half so sweetly, or where the air was so laden 
with fragrance ; and sure am I there was no place where we were 
more cordially welcomed than in Aunt Mary's cottage. 



JULIA C. R. DORR. 449 

I well remember Aunt jMary's first arrival in Elmwood. For 
two or three weeks it had been rumoured that the cottage on the 
hill was to receive a new tenant. Some slight repairs were going 
on, and some one had seen a Avagon, loaded with furniture, unladen 
at the door. This was enough to excite village curiosity ; and 
when we assembled in the church, the next Sabbath, I fear that 
more than one eye wandered from the pulpit to the door, to catch 
the first glimpse of our new neighbour. Just as our old pastor was 
commencing the morning service, a ladj, entirely unattended, came 
slowly up the aisle, and entered the pew designated by the sexton. 
Her tall and graceful figure was robed in deepest black, and it 
was evident that grief, rather than years, had dimmed the bright- 
ness of her eye, and driven the rich colouring of youth and health 
from her cheek. But there was something in the quiet, subdued 
glance of those large, thoughtful eyes, in the intellect that seemed 
throned upon her lofty forehead, and in the sweet and tender 
expression' that played around her small and delicately formed 
mouth, that more than compensated for the absence of youthful 
bloom and freshness. I did not think of these things then ; but, 
child that I was, after one glance I shrank back in my seat, awe- 
struck and abashed by the dignity of her bearing. Yet when she 
rose from her knees, and I caught another glimpse of her pale 
face, my little heart seemed drawn towards her by some powerful 
spell ; and after service was concluded, as we passed down the aisle 
side by side, I timidly placed in her hand a wild rose I had gathered 
on my way to church. She took it with a smile, and in a sweet 
low voice thanked me for the simple gift. Our homes lay in the 
same direction, and ere we reached my father's gate I imagined 
myself well acquainted with Miss Atherton. 

From that hour my visits to Hillside Cottage were neither " few" 
nor "far between." My parents laughed at my enthusiastic praises 
of my new friend ; but they soon became assured that they were 
well grounded : and it was not long before the answer, " Oh, she 
has only gone to see Aunt Mary," was the most satisfactory one 
that could be given to the oft-repeated query, " Where in the world 
has Jessie gone now ?" 
b7 



450 JULIA C. 11. DORR. 

She lived almost the life of a recluse ; seldom minglmg tdth the 
villagers, save in the services of the sanctuary, or -when, like a 
ministering tangel, she hovered around the couch of the' dying. 
Formed to be an ornament to any circle, and to attract admiration 
and attention Avherever she moved, she yet shrank from public 
notice, and "was rarely seen, except by those who sought her society 
in her own little cottage. To those few it was evident that her 
love of seclusion was rather the effect of some deep grief, that had 
in early life cast its shadow over her pathway, than the constitu- 
tional tendency of her mind. Hers was a character singularly 
lovely and symmetrical. With a mind strong, clear, and discrimi- 
nating, she yet possessed all those finer shades of fancy and feeling, 
all that confiding tenderness, all those womanly sympathies, and 
all that delicacy and refinement of thought and manner which, in 
the opinion of many, can rarely be found in woman, combined with 
a high degree of talent. Love of the beautiful and sublime was 
with her almost a passion, and conversing with her, when animated 
by her favourite theme, was like reading a page of rare poetry, or 
gazing upon a series of paintings, the work of a well-skilled hand. 

Years passed on. The little village of Elmwood had increased 
in size, if not in comeliness : the old church had given place to one 
of statelier mien and prouder vestments, and the winding lane, with 
its primroses and violets, had become a busy street, with tall rows 
of brick bordering it on either side. But still the cottage on the 
hill remained quiet and peaceful as ever, undisturbed by the changes 
that were at work beneath it. A silver thread might now and then 
be traced amid the abundant raven tresses that were parted on 
Aunt Mary's forehead ; and my childish curls had grown darker, 
and were arranged with more precision than of yore. Yet still the 
friendship of earlier years remained unbroken, and a week seldom 
passed without finding me at Hillside Cottage. My visits had of 
late been more frequent than ever, for the time was drawing near 
when our intimacy must be interrupted. I was soon to leave my 
father's roof, for a new home in a far-off clime, and to exchange the 
love and tenderness that had ever been lavished upon me there for 
a nearer and more eng-rossino; attachment. 



JULIAC. R. DORR. 451 

It was the evening before my bridal. I had stolen away unper- 
ceived, for I could not resist the temptation of one more quiet chat 
with Aunt Mary. 

"I scarcely expected you to-night, my dear Jessie," said she, as 
I entered, " but you are none the less welcome. Do you know I am 
very selfish to-night ? When I ought to be rejoicing in your happi- 
ness, my heart is heavy, because I feel that I can no longer be to 
you what I have been, chief friend and confidant. Oh ! I shall 
indeed miss my little Jessie." 

" You will always be to me just what you have been. Aunt Mary," 
I replied, and tears filled my eyes, as I threw myself upon a low 
seat at her feet. " You must not think that because I am a wife, 
I shall love my old friends any the less : and you of all others, you 
who have been to me as a dear, dear elder sister, — you who have 
instructed and counselled me, and have shared all my thoughts and 
feelings since I was a little child ; oh ! do you think any one can 
come betAveen our hearts ? We may not meet as frequently as we 
have done, but you will ever find me just the same, and I shall tell 
you all my thoughts, and all my cares and sorrows, and all my 
joys too, just as I always have done." 

"No, no, Jessie, say not so. That may not be. You may love 
me just as well, but you will love another more. Your heart cannot 
be open to me as it has been, for it will belong to another. Its 
hopes, its fears, its joys, its sorrows, its cares, its love, will all be so 
intimately blended with those of anothei', that they cannot be 
separated. No wife, provided the relations existing between her 
husband and herself are what they should be, can be to any other 
friend exactly what she was before her marriage." 

" Why, Aunt Mary ! — you surely do not mean to say that a wife 
should never have any confidential friends?" 

" The history of woman, dear Jessie, is generally simply a record 
of the workings of her own heart ; in ordinary cases, she has little 
else to consider. ' The world of aStSCtions is her world,' and there 
finds she her appropriate sphere of action. What I mean to say 
is, — not that a wife should have no friend save her husband, — but 
that, if the hearts of the twain are as closely linked together as they 



i.'i'i 



.1 r 1, 1 A c. i; , iM> KK. 



slioiiM lu\ il'lhov mIwmvs Ih>;i( in [UM'TinM imisoii, iiiul if ihiMr (liou;);l>ts 
!uul l\-(>linp^s h;irnu>ui.',o :is (lu>v imi;';1iI Io do, il will bo dilVuMilt t'lM" 
lior to ilr;»\\ :\sitlo tlu> voil iVoni lior (M\u luwrl, Mud l;iv it (ij»on io 
i\\v >.';!iv,o or.Muy othor Ihmul!;, Avilhout, in soino (U'i2;nH\ l>(Mr:ivin<!; iho 
I'onlitlonoo vopt^soil in liov bv Itim who should bo iionviM- :uid doiivor 
llinii all tlio world bosido. Tlio b(\iit is bko ;i (oniplo. Jt'ssio. It 
has its out(M' Mud its inuor (■(MuI. and it has also Us lioh o\' liolii^s. 
'Pho onto\- oomt is full, (\miiiiioii a('(|uaiutanoos. thoso that wo oall 
fi'iiMids. uiorolv booaiiso ihov avo iiv>l onoinit^s, '.wo _<i;at1uM'od tl>or(\ 
'rii(> iuiiiM- ooiirt but low niav otitor. tlu^ low who wt' tool lovi> us. 
and to whom wo aro uuilod b\ (lu^ strong;- bonds of sviujki I liv ; but 
iho saiiotuiu sauotoruiii. th(> holv ol' Iioli(\s, that uuist uo\or bo ju'O- 
I'auod h\ alion l*oolsfo[>s, ov bv tho troad of anv, savo him to wIumu 
(ho wifo hath said, 'Whithor thou ^'oost 1 will go, thv j^oojdo shall 
bo mv poojdo. and thv (UhI mv (uul/ " 



MAllY ELIZABETH MORAGNE. 



Mahy KiMZAiM'iTii IMdUAONio wiis bovii ill tlio year 1815, at Oakwood, 
iu x\bbcvillo District, iSoutli Carolina. At this retired spot she spent the 
earlier years of a quiet and uniform life, tlio deep seclusion of which 
served to foster and increase a naturally contemplative and romantic turn 
of mind. 

Ilcr childhood and youth were characterized by an ardent devotion to 
books ; and, though she received the benefit of some competent instruction, 
she may be said iu this way to have become self-educated — having acquired 
a knowledg(! of some of the sciences and of the French language mainly 
by her own efforts. Had her reading been less varied, or had she como 
moro in contact with the world, perhaps very different would have been 
her future career ; but the balance of her mind was preserved by an 
inquisitive search after truth, and her habits and modes of thinking were 
kept free from the conventional rules of the so-called fashionable life. 

In 1839, soon after the publication of her first effort in novel-writing, 
she attached herself to the Presbyterian church at Willington, in which 
she had been brought up, under the care of the Ilov. Dr. Waddel. She 
experienced at the same time a change of views in regard to the propriety 
of that branch of literature which she had adopted; and finally, after a 
few more efforts, some of which were never suffered to como before the 
world, she yielded to her particular scru[)les of conscieuec, and has ever 
since resolutely denied herself this favourite pursuit. 

In 1842, Dr. Waddel having been removed by infirmity, she was mar- 
ried to his successor, the Rev. W. IT. Davis, and removed with him the 
following year to Mount Carmel, a situation in the vicinity of the same 
church, where she has since resided. 

Miss Moragne is descended, on the paternal side, from the French 
Huguenots who sought religious freedom iu this country in 17G4. That 

(453) 



4-34 >r A Tx Y i: L I Z A B E T H ^f R A G N 1- . 

portion of the colony wbioh did not roniaiu in Charloston found rofugo ou 
the banks of Little River, in that district, Avhere they formed a township 
after the manner of the country- which they had loft. Iler connesiou 
■with, and prosiiuity to this settlement, gave much colouring to the feel- 
ings and pursuits of Miss Moragne, and in the introduction to an unfinished 
tale once- contemplated on this subject, she gives a brief but beautiful 
history of this settlement, from the unpublished manuscript of which an 
extract is made, at the end of the present notice. 

Among these settlers was Pierre ^loragne. the grandfother of the sub- 
ject of the present notice, who. having lost his wife ou the passage round 
hy Plymouth, returned to Charleston from Xew Bordeaux, and married 
Cecille Bayle, a beautiful '' eompagnou-du-voyago." As his letters and 
journals testify, he was from his youth addicted to literary pursuits, and 
though the wants of a primitive settlement could not have been very 
favourable to such inclinations, he is remembered and spoken of as a 
character of great eccentricity, on account of having devoted the latter 
years of his life to the entire companionship of his pen. His writings 
were not appreciated l\y his immediate descendants ; and of the 
many manuscripts which he left, prepared for publication, only a few 
remain. These evince considerable elegance of diction, great orthodoxy 
of sentiment, and much fervent piety. The youngest of his four sons, 
who inherited much of his philosophic and eccentric temperament, was 
the father of Miss Moraguo. On the other side, the parentage is respect- 
able, her maternal grandmother claiming descent from the Randolphs of 
Roanoke. 

''The British Partisan," her first publication, appeared, as a prize tale, 
in the "Augusta 3Iirror," in 1S3S. It was well received, adding greatly 
to the extension of the periodical, besides being reprinted in book form. 

In 1S41, appeared the "Rencontre," a short tale, embracing revolu- 
tionary incidents. Of this story, Mr. Thompson, the editor of the 
"Augusta Mirror," remarked as follows: — "The 'Rencontre' is of that 
class of literar}- productions which we prize above all other orders of 
fiction. Illustrative as it is of our own history, descriptive of our own 
peculiar scenery, and abounding in sound reflections and truly elevated 
sentiment, we hold it worth volumes of the mawkish romance and sickly 
sentimentality which has of late become a merchantable commodity with 
a great portion of the literary world." 

About this time appeared also some smaller pieces, both in prose and 
verse. One of the latter was called "' Joseph, a Scripture sketch, in three 
parts," comprising more than a thousand lines of blank verse. 

Near the close of the year 1841, the editor of the " Augusta Mirror" 
■says : — " We have received the first part of a tale, entitled " The "Wal- 
singham Family, or, A Mother's Ambition,'' by a favourite lady corres- 



MAIIY ELIZABETH MORAGNE. 4.w 

pondent. We arc much pleased with it, and judging from past efforts of 
the same pen, do not hesitate to promise our readers a rich treat." 

This was a domestic tale of some length, apparently designed to illus- 
trate the folly and vanity of a worldly and ambitious mother; but although 
the first six chapters were in the hands of the publisher, and the remainder 
nearly ready for publication, it was, for the reasons before-mefitioncd, 
entirely withdrawn, notwithstanding the earnest solicitation of the editors 
into whose hands it had passed. 



THE HUGUENOT TOWN. 

Constructed for purposes of personal convenience, by a simple 
community, thrown without protection among strangers, in a country 
yet almost savage, without money, and with fcAV facilities for build- 
ing, this town was not distinguished from the other primitive settle- 
ments except by the love of association which it evinced, and the 
strong marks of national character Avhich it assumed. The com- 
mon interest of safety, not less than old prejudices in favour of 
this mode of life, seemed to warrant the propriety of combining 
that strength, "which, when divided, might not be sufficient to pro- 
tect their lives from the Indian's scalping knife, or their customs 
and property from the invasions of the roving, unsettled, and shift- 
ing tide of white population. It would hardly be supposed that a 
people who had forsaken their own country for the sake of these 
hallowed customs, could easily merge them into the rude and reck- 
less mass of provincial habits, — every feeling of national love, every 
principle of their sacred religion forbade it ; and the formidable 
barrier of a foreign tongue, whilst it shut them in from the new 
world, guarded the treasure they had so much desired to keep invio- 
late. An ignorance of the common methods of agriculture practised 
here, as well as strong prejudices in favour of their former habits 
of living, prevented them from seizing with avidity on large bodies 
of land by individual possession ; but the site of a town being 
selected, a lot of four acres was apportioned to evei'y citizen. In 
a short time a hundred houses had risen, in a regularly compact 
body, in the square of which stood a building superior in size and 
construction to the rest, Avhich served the threefold purpose of 



436 MAEY ELIZABETH MOEAGNE. 

hotel, cafe lioiise, and "•bureau des afiaives" for the little self- 
incorporated body. 

The situation Avas not chosen •with nuich regard to beauty or 
health : it "was in a rich level valley, a few rods from the river, 
■which they vainly supposed -would furnish an easy access by navi- 
gation to remote places, particularly to Charleston, -where many 
of their number remained. The simplicity of this idea is much in 
character -with the many impracticable vie-ws -which a ne-w country 
suffirests, and is not more strange than the belief that a small to-wn- 
ship, holding its o-wn regulations and manners, could flourish in the 
midst of a -wild country, independent of commercial relations; yet 
time alone proved the futility of both. The to-wn -was soon busy 
-with the industry of its tradesmen ; silk and flax -were manufac- 
tured, -v\hilst the cultivators of the soil -were taxed -with the supply 
of corn and -wine. The hum of cheerful voices arose during the 
week, mingled Avith the interdicted songs of praise ; and on the 
sabbath the quiet -worshippers, assembled in their rustic church, 
listened -with fervent response to that faithful pastor, -who had 
been their spiritual leader through perils by sea and land, and 
who now directed their free, unrestrained devotion to the Lord of 
the forest. 

Did I say there was no beauty there ? — none but the clear glancing 
of the rippling stream, and the high arching of the solemn woods 
above, wreathing their limbs in fantastic forms against the deep 
blue sky, and forming a natiu"al temple, in which each tree stood 
up tall and distinct as a polished shaft in the midst. The solemn 
Elm, and deep green river Oak were there, sustaining the slender 
Larch, and twining their branches through the light-green foliage 
of the Maple, which beautifully contrasted the glittering notched 
leaves of the fragrant Gum. The woods still wave on in melan- 
choly grandeur, with the added glory of near a hundred years ; 
but they who once lived and worshipped beneath them — where are 
they ? Shades of my ancestors — where ? No crumbling wreck, 
no mossy ruin, points the antiquarian research to the place of 
their sojourn, or to their last resting-places ! The traces of a 
narrow trench, surrounding a square plat of ground, now covered 



MARY ELIZABETH MORAGNE. 457 

with tlie interlacing arms of liaAvthorn and wild honeysuckle, arrest 
the attention as we are proceeding along a strongly beaten track 
in the deep woods, and we are assured that this is the site of the 
"old French town," which has given its name to the portion of 
country around. After some years, but not till the country was 
established in peace, it was gradually abandoned, on account of 
the unhealthiness of the situation, and because the narrowness of 
its limits obliged the citizens, as they grew rich enough, to move 
out upon the hills, to which their familiarity with the usages of the 
country had now rendered them less opposed ; and it must be con- 
fessed, also, that in the course of the Indian wars, and the scenes 
of the revolution which followed, attrition with the more enter- 
prising and crafty had worn off so much of their native simplicity 
as to admit the passion^ of avarice, which, by calling them to a 
more enlarged sphere, greatly tended to the oblivion of their town, 
though more than half a century had passed away before they had 
forfeited any of their national characteristics, or admitted any 
corruption of their native tongue. 



58 



MARY ELIZABETH LEE. 



Mary Elizabeth Lee was born on the 23d of March, 1813, at 
Charleston, which her own writings have contributed something to render 
classic ground. Her parents were William and Elizabeth Lee. Her 
father practised the profession of the law in early life, and sat for a period 
as member of the State Legislature. Her uncle. Judge Thomas Lee, 
was, for many years and in several respects, one of the most distiDguished 
citizens of South Carolina. Several others of her connexions were ar- 
dent'y devoted to intellectual cultivation, and thus Mary's lot fell in a 
family where every literary tendency was sure to be kindly encouraged 
and happily developed. 

The extreme susceptibility of her feelings prevented her parents from 
placing her at school until after her tenth year. She was then consigned 
to the tuition of A. Bolles, Esq., a distinguished teacher of young 
ladies in Charleston. Here she availed herself with much diligence 
of her advantages, and laid the foundation of a solid and accurate 
education. 

Grenius is seldom destitute of some channel through which to commu- 
nicate its inspirations to the world. It so happened, that when about 
twenty years had matured the mind of Mary Lee, and had stored it with 
a wide range of suggestive acquisitions, a little periodical for youth, edited 
by Mrs. Caroline Gilman, had been recently started in Charleston, under 
the title of " The Rose Bud," which soon after changed its name to '' The 
Southern Rose," and aspired to some rank of literary pretension. To the 
pages of this publication Miss Lee contributed her earliest productions, 
prompted alike by the dictates of generous friendship and of tremulous 
ambition. 

For a considerable time, the signature attached to her pieces was the 
modest and general one, "A Friend." As they increased in merit, inqui- 
ries as to the authorship began to be multiplied, and at last her personal 

{45S) 



MARY ELIZABETH LEE. 459 

relationship to them became so well and favourably known, that she dis- 
carded the timid disguise, and adopted ever after as a signature in the 
Rose, the initials " M. E. L." In all other publications, I believe, it was 
expanded into her full name. 

Several brilliant and beautiful effusions now continued to increase her 
reputation. Among others, "The Lone Star" was admired by every one, 
so that for a long time the authoress herself, when she was mentioned in 
her native city, received generally the name of "■ The Lone Star." " The 
Blind Negro Communicant" gave her something of a national fame, and 
was copied into religious and other newspapers in every part of the 
country. 

Miss Lee's incessant aspirations after perfection in every accomplish- 
ment, were in nothing more signal than in her studied efforts to acquire 
a correct style of writing. For many years she published no poem before 
exhibiting it to the literary friend of her early youth. His criticisms 
were always unsparing; each questionable phrase, or halting line, or am- 
biguous rhyme, was faithfully pointed out, and surprising often were the 
patience, talent, and ingenuity, with which, in availing herself of his 
suggestions, she surmounted every difficulty and remedied every defect. 

To prose composition she devoted as much attention as to poetical. 
Many prefer her writings in the former department, and an edition of 
them would no doubt prove alike acceptable to the public and honourable 
to her name. Her style is characterized by graceful ease and well chosen 
expressions. 

About this time she prepared a volume for the Massachusetts School 
Library, entitled " Social Evenings, or Historical Tales for Youth." The 
publishers have declared it to be one of the most popular and useful on 
their list. The style is at once chaste and vivacious, the topics are 
selected from a wide range of national histories, indicating a great amount 
of reading, the poetical illustrations, chiefly by the writer herself, are 
numerous and beautiful, the pathos is genuine, the characters are marked, 
and the whole structure of the work exhibits talents of a high order. 
Eight evenings are supposed to be occupied by a little youthful circle in 
listening to an experienced friend, who reads to them the successive tales. 
Each " Evening" is preceded by some animated, descriptive scene, involv- 
ing throughout the book a separate narrative thread of affecting interest, 
thus serving to vary the attention, to make the necessary transitions from 
subject to subject, and to combine the different parts into one harmonious 
whole. 

In the mean time, her literary labours and successes were advancing in 
every direction. As she was desirous of maintaining for herself an honour- 
able independence, she supplied continual contributions to several widely 
circulated magazines. The journals and annuals for which she wrote 
were Graham's Magazine, Godey's Lady's Book, New Orleans Miscellany, 



460 MARY ELIZABETH LEE. 

Philadelphia Courier, Token, Gem, Gift, Mr. Whitaker's Journal, South- 
ern Literary Messenger, and Orion Magazine. 

This gifted young lady died at ChaTleston, September 23, 1849. lu 
1851 a volume of her poems was published, with an interesting biogra- 
phical memoir by the Rev. Dr. Gilman, from which this brief notice has 
been compiled. Her prose writings have never been collected. 

EXTRACT FROM A LETTER. 

You ask how I have been occupied, and why I have written so 
little for the pages of the " Rose." Well, I must tell you. I have 
forsworn poetry, and excepting a " Farewell" to it, which I wanted 
to make very pathetic, have not Avritten a verse for a long while. 
As I tell you, this "Farewell to Poesy" was a thing I designed 
should be the last and best, and accordingly one dark wintry after- 
noon, I wrapped myself closely in cloak and boa, and slipping away 
from the children, who are always in readiness for a walk, I pro- 
ceeded to a very lonely and romantic spot at some distance from 
Homestead, hoping that in this deep solitude I might strike the 
' harp of solemn sound,' so that it should give out music worthy of 
so high a theme. But in vain the wind moaned in most doleful 
cadence, in vain the waterfall sang its tireless song, in vain the owl 
in an adjacent wood croaked ever and anon ; T could not attune my 
spirit aright. My rhymes jingled readily enough, but I could not 
win " the spark of heaven to tremble down the wire," and after 
being seated for a full hour over a wet log, which produced, as you 
may suppose, a most uncommon rheumatism, I was startled by 
*****, who came to inquire of my poetical success. With great 
animation I read my several verses, each ending with these em- 
phatic lines, 

I vow that I no more will be 

A captive to sweet poesy ; 

which lines, to my surprise, produced at each repetition a most 
unrestrained burst of laughter, and were at last set to a most ridi- 
culous tune, which was sung during our long walk homeward, with 
the most provoking perseverance, till I too was compelled to laugh 
at my own hard-earned composition. Now you see I have let you 



MARY ELIZABETH LEE. 461 

into one of the trials of the scribbling class, and perhaps it may 
take away any disposition which you may sometimes feel towards 
courting the gentle Muse. I wanted so much to produce that 
Farewell, before I "furled my sail, to try no more the unsteady 
breath of favour;" and now I am resolved not to give up the ship, 
but .to hold on, so long as the storm of public opinion does not 
beat too hard. Don't you think I had better continue, confining 
myself to such innocent, simple subjects, as " Lines to the Owner 
of an Album," " Stanzas to E. C," " Sonnet to the EA^ening Star," 
and so on ? Such lines can do no mischief, you know, to the cause 
of poetry. 

But I promised to tell what I was doing, and you will be alarmed 
to hear, that I am drinking, with great gout, at the fount of philo- 
sophy. To be sure, as yet my progress has' been but sIoav, and the 
draught not very deep, for I have taken in but parts of Doctor 
Adams's Moral Philosophy, and fear to think when I shall be pos- 
sessed of the whole. Have you read the work ? Cousin S. thinks 
very well of it. If you want a treat in natural philosophy, I can 
recommend to your perusal "Euler's Letters," which form two 
volumes of that excellent publication, " The Family Library." 
The subjects are handled with a clearness and conciseness which 
pleased me greatly ; and perhaps like me, and I suspect Avomen in 
general, you do not like those huge tomes, that always seem to 
smell of poppies, whenever I venture so far as to open them. I 
like roast pig when stuffed with raisins and currants, for so I 
remember eating it some years ago at a friend's house ; and though 
a homely simile, I would compare philosophy with this heavy, sub- 
stantial dish, and can truly say I never enjoy it unless well stocked 
with some apropos anecdote ; some short flight of fancy ; some 
occasionally wild conjecture. 

With the word conjecture, Dick's Works are brought to my mind, 
and I want you to read them also. I am now busy with his 
"Philosophy of Religion," a work which, on account of its being 
a little startling, interests me exceedingly. What do you think 
of him when I tell you that he says, " it is a pleasing fancy to 
suppose that a city lit with gas lights, would present the same 



462 MARY ELIZABETH LEE. 

appearance to the inhabitants of the moon, which that satellite's 
luminous spots display to us." Don't you think this is but a pleas- 
ing fancy, Avith no reality ? Cousin S. has a first-rate microscope ; 
also an excellent telescope, through which we have been for several 
evenings holding pleasant intercourse with Venus and Jupiter. 
The queen of beauty smiled on us with a most beaming smile, but 
Jupiter, vexed at being spied at, would only show three moons, 
and although we put on one power after another, would not show 
the fourth, much as we desired it. However, we Avill take another 
peep to-night, and hope to find him better disposed. Don't you 
love to look at the stars ? I do. What an idea of happiness a 
star conveys ! With such a boundless space to move in ; such an 
unmeasured distance before it, and such a long existence to live 
through ! A ^ar, with proper study, will furnish abundant food 
to the mind, and the heart also. Do you make the evening star 
your heart-study as you promised, and does it bring me any nearer 
to you every evening ? I hope so, or you have proved a forgetful 
friend. 



ARY J. 



Although distinguished for her statesmen and warriors, the ''diamond 
State" of Delaware has produced but few sons or daughters who have 
attained to eminence or achieved fame in the literary arena. This is an 
anomaly by no means easy of explanation, since there are few portions of 
our Union better educated, and no one which appreciates more highly 
literary distinction than the upper portion of Delaware. 

The young lady, however, whose name stands at the head of this slight 
memoir, bids fair to introduce her native State to worthy companionship 
in the world of letters with some of her hitherto more highly favoured 
sisters. 

Mary Jane T . e was born at Wilmington, February 16th, 1825, of 
respectable part:;u.fc. but had the misfortune to lose her father when in 
early infanci , a'g thus deprived of an affectionate husband, the mother 

of Miss W u ich an interesting and helpless family, was thrown upon 

the wond, dependent entirely upon her individual exertions for support. 
The subject of our sketch early evinced a fondness for letters, and in spite 
of ill health and the difficulties of her position, made herself well acquainted 
with modern polite literature. Of a romantic, confidin" lispr-^^^tion, great 
sweetness of temper, and refinement of manner. Miss ' aas attached 

to herself " troops of friends," who have watched wiiu interest her pro- 
gress in pvbH<' Pavour. 

Mis't 5//^ ^ i. literary career was commenced, as is usually the case in 
this <:0u i; oy contributions to the public press. Her communications, 
both profeB and poetical, attracted attention at once, and indicated the 
author to be one of no common or ordinary mind. As her powers 
expanded and became more developed, her writings likewise increased in 
variety and beauty of incident, until at length she drew to herself the 
favourable notice of a generous publisher, who transferred her talents to 
the pages of one of those splendid monthly periodicals which so peculiarly 
distinguish the present literature of the country. 

(463) 



464 JI A R Y J . : . 

Here, among the very elite of our ■writers, Mi.- : ^ ■nvc a promi- 

nent stand, and proved herself capable of competing witii rhe best of them. 
So marked was the public approbation — so great the desire to possess the 
interesting stories which monthly flowed from her graceful pen, that she 
was prevailed upon to reprint in book form a selection of her longer 
sketches. 

The volume appeared during the year 1850, and an edition of several 
thousand copies was so soon disposed of, that another and larger edition is 
now in press. 

Miss ^ ....- . merits as a writer are great and varied. Purity of taste, 
much ci i !ii,. • u of language, and fascinating descriptive powers, charac- 
terize her productions. 

Feminine grace and modesty are likewise leading features; and no one 
can lay down even the slightest of her sketches without the full con- 
viction that it could only proceed from the pen of a refined and accom- 
plished lady. 

Though natuvil^-" ^^ feeble constitution, and almost a martyr to ill 
health, Mis'^ i attending to literary pursuits, by no means 

neglects her dui. . uat society of which she is at once a member and 
an ornament. 

Possessed, in addition to her other accomplishments, of fine conversa- 
tional ability, she renders her associations not only agreeable, but most 
useful ; and it is to be strongly desired, that she may be spared to her 
friends long enough to fulfil the promise of a career so brilliantly 
commenced. 

ALICE HEATH'S INTERVIEW WITH CROMWELL. 

At a late hour of the night, two persons were winding their way to 
the palace of Whitehall. One was an individual of the male sex, 
in whom might have been seen, even through the gloom, a polished 
and dignified bearing, which, together with his dress — though of 
the Puritanic order — declared him a gentleman of more than ordi- 
nary rank. His companion was a delicate woman, evidently like 
himself of the most genteel class, but attired in the simplest and 
plainest Avalking costume of the times. She leaned on his arm 
with much appearance of womanly trust, although there was an 
air of self-confidence in her step, suggesting the idea of one capable 
of acting alone on occasion of emergency, and a striking yet per- 
fectly feminine dignity presiding over her whole aspect. 

"I have counselled your visiting him at this late hour," said 
the gentleman, "because, as the only hope lies in striking terror 



MARY J. ' •: 465 

into his conscience, the purpose may be best answered in the soli- 
tude and silence of a season like this. Conscience is a coward in 
the daylight, but darkness and night generally give her courage 
to assert her power." 

" True, William," replied Alice Heath (for she it was, and her 
companion, as the reader is aware by this time, was her husband), 
" true — but alas ! I fear for the success of my visit ; the individual 
of whom we are speaking deceives himself no less than others, and 
therefore to him she is a coward at all times. Hast thou not read 
what my poor dead grandfather's old acquaintance has written about 
a man's ' making such a sinner of his conscience as to believe his 
own lies?' " 

" I have not forgotten the passage, my Alice, and, ever correct 
in your judgment, you have penetrated rightly into the singular 
character we are alluding to. I wot it were hard for himself to 
say how far he has been actuated by pure, and how far by ambitious 
motives, in the hand he has had in the sentence of the king. Never- 
theless, you would believe his conscience to be not altogether dead, 
had you seen him tremble and grow pale yesterday in the Court, 
during the reading of the warrant (which, by the way, he had 
worded and written Avith his own hands), when Charles Stuart raised 
his eyes and looked upon him as if to imply that he knew him for 
the instigator, and no unselfish one, either, of his doom. The 
emotion he then testified, it was, which led me to hope he may yet 
be operated upon to prevent the fatal judgment from taking efiect. 
It is true, Charles is a traitor, and I cannot regret that, in being 
arraigned and tried, an example has been made of him. But 
having from the first anticipated this result, except for your father, 
Alice, I would have had no part in the matter, being entirely 
opposed to the shedding of his blood. All ends which his death 
can accomplish have already been answered ; and I devoutly pray 
that the efi"ort your gentle heart is now about to make for the 
saving of his life, may be blessed in procuring that merciful 
result." 

At this moment they paused before the magnificent structure, 
known as the Palace of Whitehall, and applied for admission. 

59 



466 MARY J. ' 

Vacated some time since by the king, it was now occupied by his 
rival in power, the aspiring Cromwell ; and although the hour was 
so late, the vast pile was still illuminated. Having gained speedy 
access to the main building, the visiters were admitted by a servant 
in the gorgeous livery of the fallen monarch. Heath requested to 
be shown to an ante-room, while Alice solicited to be conducted 
without previous announcement to the presence of his master. 
After a moment's hesitation on the part of the servant, which, 
however, was quickly overcome by her persuasive manner, he con- 
ducted her through various spacious halls, and up numerous flights 
of stairs, till, pausing suddenly before the door of a chamber, he 
knocked gently. As they waited for an answer, the accents of 
prayer were distinctly audible. They were desired to enter ; the 
servant threw open the door, simply announcing a lady. Alice 
entered, and found herself alone with Cromwell. 

The apartment was an ante-room attached to the spacious bed- 
chamber formerly belonging to the king. It was luxuriously fur- 
nished with all the appliances of ease and elegance suitable to a 
royal withdrawing room. Tables and chairs of rose-wood, richly 
inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl, were arranged in order 
around the room ; magnificent vases of porcelain decorated the 
mantel-piece ; statues from the chisel of Michael Angelo stood in 
the niches ; and pictures in gorgeous frames hung upon the walls. 

There, near a table, on which burned a single-shaded lamp, 
standing upright, in the attitude of prayer, from which he had 
just been interrupted, stood the occupant. For an instant, as she 
lingered near the door, and looked upon his figure, Avhich bore so 
strongly the impress of power, and felt that on his word hung the 
fate of him for whom she had come to plead, she already feared 
for the success of her mission, and would fain almost have retracted 
her visit. But remembering the accents of prayer she had heard 
while waiting without, she considered that her purposed appeal 
was to the conscience of one whom she had just surprised, as it 
were, in the presence of his Maker, and took courage to advance. 

'' May I pray thee to approach and be seated, madam, and 
unfold the object of this visit?" said Cromwell, in a thick, rapid 



MARY J. ' 467 

utterance, the result of his surprise, as he waved his visiter to a 
chair. " At that distance, and by this light, I can hardly dis- 
tinguish the features of the lady who so inopjoortunely and uncere- 
moniously honours me with her presence." 

Immediately advancing, she threw back her hood, and oiferino- 
him her hand, said, "It is Alice Heath, the daughter of your 
friend. General Lisle." 

Cromwell's rugged countenance expressed the utmost surprise, 
as he awkwardly strove to assume a courtesy foreign to his man- 
ner, and exchange his first ungracious greeting for something of a 
more cordial welcome. 

With exceeding tact, Alice hastened to relieve his embarrass- 
ment, by falling back into the chair he had offered, and at once 
declaring the purpose of her visit. 

"General Cromwell," she began, in a voice sweetly distinct, 
"you stand high in the eyes of man, not only as a patriot, but a 
strict and conscientious servant of the Most High. As such, you 
have been the main instrument in procuring the doom now banging 
in awful expectation over the head of him who once tenanted, in 
the same splendour that now surrounds yourself, the building in 
which I find you. Methinks his vacation of these princely pre- 
mises, and your succession- thereunto, renders you scarcely capable 
of being a disinterested advocate for his death — since, by it, you 
become successor to all the pomp and power formerly his. Have 
you asked yourself the question whether no motives of self-ag- 
grandizement have tainted this deed of patriotism, or sullied this 
act of religion ?" 

"Your language is unwarrantable and unbecoming, madam," 
said Cromwell, deadly pale and trembling violently; "it is 
written — " 

"Excuse me," said Alice, interrupting him; "you think it un- 
courteous and even impertinent that I should intrude upon you with 
a question such as I but now addressed to you. But, General 
Cromwell, a human life is at stake, and that the life of no ordinary 
being, but the descendant of a race of kings. Nay, hear me out, 
feir, I beg of you. Charles Stuart is about to die an awful and a 



468 MARY J. . 1 

violent death ; your voice lias condemned him — your voice can yet 
save him. If it be your country's weal that you desire, that object 
has been already sufficiently answered by the example of his trial ; 
or, if it is to further the cause of the Lord of Hosts that you place 
yourself at the head of Britain in his place, be assured that he who 
would assert his power by surrounding himself with a pomp like 
this, is no delegate of One who commissioned Moses to lead his 
people through the wilderness, a sharer in the common lot, and a 
houseless wanderer like themselves. Bethink you, therefore, what 
must be the doom of him, who — for the sake of ambition and pride 
— in order that he might for the brief space of his life enjoy luxury 
and power — under the borrowed name, too, of that God who views 
the act with horror and detestation — stains his hands with parri- 
cidal blood. Yes, General Cromwell, for thy own soul's, if not for 
mercy's sake, I entreat thee, in whom alone lies the power, to cause 
Charles Stuart's sentence to be remitted." 

After a few moments' hesitation, during which Alice looked in 
his face with the deepest anxiety, and awaited his answer, he said, 
" Go to, young woman, who presumest to interfere between a judge 
raised up for the redemption of England, and a traitor king, whom 
the Lord hath permitted to be condemned to the axe. As my soul 
liveth, and as He liveth, who will one day make me a ruler in Israel, 
thou hast more than the vanity of thy sex, in hoping by thy foolish 
speech to move me to lift up my hand against the decree of the 
Almighty. Truly — " 

"Nay, General Cromwell," said Alice, interrupting him, as soon 
as she perceived he was about to enter into one of his lengthy and 
pointless harangues, " nay, you evade the matter both with me and 
with the conscience whose workings I have for the last few moments 
beheld in the disorder of your frame. Have its pleadings — for to 
them I look and not to any eloquence of mine own — been of no 
avail ? Will it please you to do aught for the king ?" 

''Young lady," replied Cromwell, bursting into tears, which he 
was occasionally wont to do, "a man like me, who is called to per- 
form great acts in Israel, had need to be immovable to feelings of 
human charities Think you not it is painful to our mortal sym- 



MARY J, • ! 469 

pathies to bo called upon to execute the righteous judgments of 
Heaven, while we are yet in the body ! And think you when 
we must remove some prime tyrant that the instruments of his 
removal can at all times view their part in his punishment with 
unshaken nerves ? Must they not even at times doubt the inspira- 
tion under which they have felt and acted ? Must they not occa- 
sionally question the origin of that strong impulse which appears 
the inward answer to prayer for direction under heavenly difficul- 
ties, and, in their disturbed apprehensions, confuse even the re- 
sponses of truth with the strong delusions of Satan ? Would that 
the Lord would harden my heart even as he hardened that of — " 

" Stop, sir," said Alice, again interrupting him ere his softened 
mood should have passed away, "utter not such a sacrilegious 
wish. Why are the kindly sympathies which you describe implanted 
in your bosom, unless it be to prevent your ambition from stifling 
your humanity ? The rather encourage them, and save Charles 
Stuart. Let your mind dwell upon the many traits of nobleness 
in his character which might be mentioned with enthusiasm, ay, 
and with sorrow, too, that they should be thus sacrificed." 

" The Most High, young woman, will have no fainters in spirit 
in his service — none who turn back from Mount Gilead for fear of 
the Amalekites. To be brief — it waxes late ; to discuss this topic 
longer is but to distress us both. Charles Stuart must die — the 
mouth of the Lord hath spoken it." 

As he spoke, he bowed with a determined but respectful reve- 
rence, and when he lifted up his head, the expression of his fea- 
tures told Alice that the doom of the king was irrevocably fixed. 

"I see there is no hope," said she, with a deep sigh, as Crom- 
well spoke these words in a tone of decision which left her no fur- 
ther encouragement, and with a brevity so unusual to him. Nor 
was his hint to close the interview lost upon her. "No hope I" 
she repeated, drawing back. " I leave you, then, inexorable man 
of iron, and may you not thus plead in vain for mercy at the bar 
of God!" 

So saying, she turned and rejoined her husband, who remained 
in waiting for her : they returned together to Lisle's house. 



FANNY FEUN. 



We would be glad to give the true name of this authoress. But she 
prefers still to maintain her incognita, and a proper deference to the obli- 
gations of courtesy (which are as binding in literary as in social life) 
forbids our doing what would otherwise be an equal gratification to our 
readers and ourselves. With regard to the personal history of Fanny 
Fern, we feel a similar restraint. We shall, therefore, only touch, and 
that lightly, upon such points as, under the circumstances, may be referred 
to without the slightest violation of propriety. 

Not many years since, Fanny Fern was living — no matter where — in 
aifluence. No home need be more lovely, no family more happy, than was 
hers. Ample wealth, devoted love, cultivated intellect, refined taste, and 
a fervid religious spirit, combined to make that home whatever could be 
desired on earth, and excited the respect and admiration of all admitted to 
the happy circle. But suddenly a bolt fell. Death came. The husband 
and father was smitten down. The widowed mother and the half-orphan 
children were left to fight the battle of life alone. Adversity succeeded 
adversity. Poverty followed in the dismal train, and illness and want had 
the afflicted family at their mercy. The mother struggled on as best she 
could ; but we all know how hard it is for a lady to find employment 
which will enable her to obtain a livelihood even for herself, much less for 
a family of children. The female teacher generally receives only a meagre 
salary ; the copyist pursues an uncertain calling ; the seamstress can at best 
earn but a miserable pittance. And so, at last, after bitter years, the 
widowed mother, from sheer desperation, took to her pen ; and another 
and a bright star was added to our literary galaxy. 

Fanny Fern's first article was written and published in July, 1851. 
It was immediately copied far and wide. Each succeeding piece met with 
similar favour; until most of the newspapers of this country, and many 
British periodicals, were regularly enriched with her articles. But while 



FANNY FERN. 471 

she was thus furnisliing amusement and instruction to the public, she was 
not receiving an adequate reward. Whenever a woman is obliged to go 
out into the world and earn her own living, she has to undergo trials and 
difl&culties of which a man can perhaps form no just idea. A delicate, 
sensitive lady cannot, for instance, call at newspaper offices to solicit 
employment, or to offer an article for sale, without being exposed to annoy- 
ances which to her are painful, but which a man might not observe. A 
refined lady can ill brook the inquiring gaze and impertinent stare of 
bangers-on ; nor can she bargain for a proper remuneration, nor " call 
again," and again, and again, if need be, in foul as well as fair weather. 
And then, it is often assumed that a woman should be paid less for her 
labour than a man for his, though hers be equally valuable ; and it is only 
after she has acquired a commanding reputation that she can ordinarily 
obtain a just equivalent for her productions. And thus, for many months, 
the compensation which Fanny Fern received for her writings was not 
at all commensurate with their value. For articles which were worth 
fifty dollars, and which would have commanded that sum, had she known 
better how to sell them, she often received but a tenth of that amount; 
and during this time, her income was far from being sufficient to maintain 
herself and children comfortably. But with unyielding perseverance, and 
with her trust in God unshaken, she worked on, until she triumphed over 
all obstacles, earned a name of which she may well be proud, secured 
an ample fortune, and won the increased respect and love of those who 
know her best. It is, perhaps, needless to remark, that she now com- 
mands the highest prices paid to writers in this country. 

In examining Fanny Fern's writings, even the earliest of them, one 
is struck with the evidence they exhibit that the writer understands her 
own powers perfectly ; or rather, that she knows positively that she can 
do certain things better than they have ever been done before. Though 
this is unquestionably the case, still, she doubtless often achieves more 
brilliant triumphs than she anticipated ; in other words, she is probably 
often surprised at the excellence of her own articles. She never makes a 
mistake, because she never attempts what she cannot successfully achieve. 
This fact has been manifested throughout her literary career. At first, 
her articles were mere paragraphs, and contained generally only one 
clearly-pronounced and admirably-developed idea. No words were wasted. 
The idea, or fact, or principle, sought to be presented, was distinctly stated, 
and clearly worked up in every attractive and telling phrase possible (as 
Beethoven worked up the theme of a symphony) ; and then the article 
was brought to an immediate but artistic conclusion. With practice, her 
confidence seemed to increase, and she struck out into bolder paths. 
Having tried and proved the strength of her pinions, she took loftier 
flights and continued longer on the wing. Relieved of pecuniary embar- 
rassments, and surrounded once more with the comforts of life, she wrote 



472 . FANNY FERN. 

with greater freedom, aud certainly gave to her articles a polish -which 
some of her earlier pieces did not possess. Her latest productions are 
models of style and composition. 

Fanny Fern's fii-st yolume, " Fern Leaves," First Series, was pub- 
lished June 4th, 1853; the second, '■'■Little Ferns for Fanny s Little 
Friends," was issued December 5th, 1853, and the third, the " Second 
Series of Fern Leaves," May 25th, 1854. The sales of these works, up 
to June 1st, 1854, were, in this country, as follows : 

First Series Fern Leaves, . . . 70,000 

Little Ferns for Fa7in7/'s Little Friends, 32,000 
Second Series Fern Leaves, . . . 30,000 



Total sale in this country, . . . 132,000 

Sales in Great Britain : 

First Series Fern Leaves, . . . 29,000 

Jjittle Ferns for Fanny's Little Friends, 19,000 



Total sale in Great Britain, . . 48,000 



Total sale in Great Britain aud America, 180,000 

This, we think, is one of the most extraordinary instances of literary 
success on record ; and, we believe, it is thus generally considered. Various 
attempts have been made to account for such unprecedented popularity. 
In a recent review of the Second Series of Fern Leaves, the Boston Fost, 
in referring to this subject, says : " Fanny Fern's success has not been 
owing to any extraneous or adventitious helps. No influence in high 
places has been exerted in her favour. Nor has her success been owing 
to any unusual amount of advertising or newspaper commendation. Her 
books would have sold largely had there never been a line written in their 
praise; and her writings will continue to be read and admired, should all 
the critics open their batteries against them." 

The same writer, in an article written with great ability and discrimina- 
tion, gives the following as his idea of the reasons of her success. He 
says : " Fanny Fern is not a legitimate author. She is a literary acci- 
dent — a most happy one, certainly; but still an accident. She never 
intended to make authorship the business of her life ; she underwent no 
preparatory training for the profession. She was simply an accomplished 
lady, of indisputable genius, possessing a mind of that subtle, acute, 
active, observing character, which penetrates and apprehends all things, 
and an imagination and graphic power that ' give to airy nothing a local 
habitation and a name.' Superadded to these qualities of mind, she had 
a warm, sympathetic, loving heart, a brilliant wit, a deeply religious nature, 
an irrepressible love of fun, and a most thoroughly independent, demo- 



FANNY FERN. 473 

cratic, and '7G-y spirit. Such a being, her mind enriched with varied 
life-experience, and her spirit deepened and chastened by affliction, 
suddenly finds it necessary to do something to earn bread for herself and 
her children. She takes to her pen. Her mind and heart arc full — 
overflowing. She has no lack of strong emotions, of brilliant, glowing 
thoughts, of exquisite fancies; and she lets them flow and sparkle as they 
will. She writes from the very depths of her being, not caring how she 
writes. And this she can safely do. It is not necessary for her to plan. 
Her constructiveness is so large and active that her articles, as they grow, 
take form naturally, like a flower. Then she is always true to nature. 
She is real. There is nothing artificial about her. Her writings are based 
on fact — experience ; it is a true woman's life, finding expression in litera- 
ture. They abound in pungent, healthful satire, sparkling wit, and irre- 
sistible humour; but they also display varied knowledge of common 
every-day life and homely affairs, strong common sense, and an unwavering 
adhesion to the right and true. Her sympathies are broad and generous. 
She always takes the weak side — by instinct she takes it. She is severe 
on bullies and stands up for the oppressed. She wakes people up ; she 
sets them in a rage ; she electrifies them with her wit ; she subdues them 
with her pathos. She exhibits the courage, independence, and manliness 
of a man, and, at the same time, she is so gentle and feminine, she 
exhibits such perfect refinement and delicacy, such maternal benignity, 
such an appreciation of the sorrows and ' little ways' of children, whom 
she evidently loves with an intimate and winning tenderness, that she 
draws all hearts after her. Her English is often splendid, and she some- 
times exhibits a felicity of adjectives truly Homeric. Her observation is 
so keen, her memory so tenacious, and her imagination so vivid, that she 
seems to have her eye on the things she describes, and makes them flash 
on the reader's mind like a vision ; and her illustrative and illuminating 
powers are so great, her sentences are rendered as clear as sunlight. Her 
diction flows murmuringly on, like a crystal stream ; her ideas shining 
out, like pearls, from its transparent depths. These are some of the 
reasons of Fanny Fern's success." 

The literary critic of the Nev) Yorh Tribune — also very high authority 
— comments as follows upon this extraordinary success : " The secret of 
Fanny Fern's literary triumph, we take to be her fidelity to nature, and 
her sympathy with the most universal tastes. She has none of the airs 
of professional authorship — does not become starched and prim at the sight 
of pen and ink — and has hit on one great art of good writing, to make it 
as much like the free talk of the writer, as the nature of the subject 
allows. Her style is free from all bookishness — all hard traces of weary 
study — and flows on as easily and blithely as the song of vernal birds. 
At the same time, it shows an alert and observing spirit, a flexile fancy, 
and a love of fun, which she could not curb if she would, and would not 
60 



474 FANNY FERN. 

if she could. Her taste for satire is indeed tempered by warm womanly 
sympathies — otherwise it might be mischievous — but now, though she cuts 
and thrusts with nimble alacrity, she leaves no venom in the wound, which 
she has made less in malice than in sport. "With her perennial mirth, she 
blends a genuine sense of the pathetic, and often relieves her brilliant 
flashes of humour with a sudden burst of sympathy. Her tendencies are 
progressive, and truly democratic. Her heart is with the people, and warms 
to homely joys and sorrows. A generous scorn of baseness and injustice 
often gives point to her sarcasm ; while her love of truth and beauty leads 
her to detect all the elements of goodness in common, evei-y-day life. She 
always takes the side of the weak and oppressed, as by an unerring instinct. 
Her fancy, it is true, often runs riot, — she overlays her pictures with blood- 
red tints — and seldom resists the temptation to an audacious extravagance j 
but she never forgets the heavenly ' quality of mercy,' nor lays aside her 
tenderness toward the weak, or her sympathy with every form of suffering. 
Such traits give Fanny Fern her popularity with the great mass of 
readers. They seek for what is natural, and warm, and impulsive, and 
humane, and of this they never fail in her writings." 

Harper's Magazine — that leviathan of literature — also has the follow- 
ing on the same subject : " The temple of fame is not to be taken by 
storm, but must be approached by steep and winding ways. A desperate 
rush is apt to defeat itself But Fanny Fern doubtless forms an excep- 
tion to this rule. The favour with which her writings have been received 
■ — almost unprecedented both in this country and in England — has a legi- 
timate cause. She dips her pen in her heart, and writes out her own 
feelings and fancies. She is no imitator, no dealer in second-hand wares. 
Her inspiration comes from nature, not from books. She dares to be ori- 
ginal. She has no fear of critics or of the public before her eyes. She 
conquers a peace with them by sheer force of audacity. Often verging on 
the bounds of wholesome conventionalities, she still shows a true and 
kindly nature — she has always the sympathy with suffering which marks 
the genuine woman — and her most petulent and frolicsome moods are 
softened by a perennial vein of tender humaneness. Fanny Fern is a 
poetess, though she avoids the use of rhyme. With all her sense of the 
ludicrous, she knows how to seize the poetical aspects of life, and these 
are rendered in picturesque and melodious phrase, which lacks nothing 
but rhythm to be true poetry. Her rapid transitions from fun to pathos 
are very effective. Her pictures of domestic life, in its multiform rela- 
tions, are so faithful to nature, as to excite alternate smiles and tears. 
We regard her extraordinary success as a good omen. She has won her 
way unmistakably to the hearts of the people ; and this we interpret as a 
triumph of natural feeling. It shows that the day for stilted rhetoric, 
scholastic refinements, and big dictionary words, the parade, pomp, and 
pageantry of literature, is declining; and that the writer who is brave 



FANNY FERN. 475 

enough to build on universal human sympathies, is sure of the most grate- 
ful reward in unaffected popular appreciation." 

Fanny Fern's past success, and her constant, natural, and healthy im- 
provement up to the present time, warrant us in predicting for her a still 
more brilliant future. We think she possesses all the necessary elements 
of a great novelist. Her narrative and descriptive powers are of the 
highest order; her wit and humor are of the most brilliant and irresistible 
quality ; her religious faith, her sympathy with the poor and weak, her 
intuitive insight into human character, and her subtle perceptions of the 
inmost workings of the soul, are certainly greater than those of most of 
the successful novelists of the age; while her constructiveness, as the 
Boston Post says, " is so large and active that her articles, as they grow, 
take form naturally, like a flower." Now, should these qualities be brought 
to bear upon the writing of a continuous story, we think the result would 
be the production of a book, which in artistic merit would far surpass any- 
thing this author has yet written, and exceed in popularity all her other 
works. What direction Fanny Fern's genius will hereafter take, is 
probably only known to herself; but the public await the developments 
of her future literary career with deep interest and hopeful anticipations. 



476 FANNY FERN. 



THE AGED MINISTER VOTED A DISMISSION. 

YouK minister is "superannuated," is he? Well, call a parish 
meeting, and vote him a dismission ; hint that his usefulness is gone ; 
that he is given to repetition ; that he puts his hearers to sleep. 
Turn him adrift, like a blind horse, or a lame house-dog. Never 
mind that he has grown gray in your thankless service — that he 
has smiled upon your infants at the baptismal font, given them 
lovingly away in marriage to their heart's chosen, and wept with 
you Avhen Death's shadow darkened your door. Never mind that 
he has laid aside his pen, and listened many a time, and oft, with 
courteous grace to your tedious, prosy conversations, when his 
moments were like gold dust ; never mind that he has patiently and 
uncomplainingly accepted at your hands, the smallest pittance that 
would sustain life, because " the Master" whispered in his ear, " Tarry 
here till I come." Never mind that the wife of his youth, whom he 
won from a home of luxury, is broken down with privation and 
fatigue, and your thousand unnecessary demands upon her strength, 
patience, and time. Never mind that his children, at an early age, 
were exiled from the parsonage roof, because there was not " bread 
enough and to spare," in their father's house. Never mind that 
his library consists only of a Bible, a Concordance, and a Diction- 
ary ; and that to the luxury of a religious newspaper, he has been 
long years a stranger. Never mind that his wardrobe would be 
sj)urned by many a mechanic in our cities ; never mind that he has 
" risen early and sat up late," and tilled the ground with weary 
limbs, for earthly "manna," while his glorious intellect lay in 
fetters — -for you. Never mind all that ; call a parish meeting, and 
vote him "superannuated." Don't spare him the starting tear of 
sensibility, or the flush of wounded pride, by delicately offering to 
settle a colleague, that your aged pastor may rest on his staff in 
grateful, gray-haired independence. No ! turn the old patriarch 
out ; give him time to go to the moss-grown churchyard, and say 
farewell to his unconscious dead, and then give " the right hand of 



FANNY FERN. 477 

fello"\ysliip" to some beardless, pedantic, noisy college boy, >y1io will 
save your sexton the trouble of pounding the pulpit cushions ; and 
who will tell you and the Almighty, in his prayers, all the political 
news of the week. 



THE FASHIONABLE PREACHER. 

Do you call this a church ? Well, I heard a prima-donna here a 
few nights ago : and bright eyes sparkled, and waving ringlets kept 
time to moving fans ; and opera glasses and ogling, and fashion and 
folly reigned for the nonce triumphant. / can't forget it ; I can't 
get up any devotion here, under these latticed balconies, with their 
fashionable freight. If it were a good old country church, with a 
cracked bell and unhewn rafters, a pine pulpit, Avith the honest sun 
staring in through the windows, a pitch-pipe in the gallery, and a 
few hob-nailed rustics scattered round in the uncushioned seats, I 
should feel all right ; but my soul is in fetters here ; it won't soar — 
its wings are earth-clipped. Things are all too fine ! Nobody can 
come in at that door, whose hat and coat and bonnet are not 
fashionably cut. The poor man (minus a Sunday suit) might lean 
on his staff, in the porch, a long while, before he'd dare venture in, 
to pick up his crumb of the Bread of Life. But, thank God, the un- 
spoken prayer of penitence may wing its way to the Eternal Throne, 
though our mocking church spires point only with aristocratic fingers 
to the rich maris heaven. 

— That hymn was beautifully read ; there's poetry in the preacher's 
soul. Now he takes his seat by the reading-desk ; now he crosses 
the platform, and offers his hymn-book to a female w^ho has just 
entered. What right has he to know there is a woman in the 
house ? 'Tis n't clerical ! Let the bonnets find their own hymns. 

Well, I take a listening attitude, and try to believe I am in 
church. I hear a great many original, a great many startling 
things said. I see the gauntlet thrown at the dear old orthodox 
sentiments which I nursed in with my mother's milk, and which 



473 FANNY FERN. 

(please God) I'll cling to till I die. I see the polislied blade of 
satire glittering in the air, followed hj curious, eager, youthful 
eyes, which gladly seethe searching " Sword of the Spirit" parried. 
Meaning glances, smothered smiles and approving nods follow the 
witty clerical sally. The orator pauses to mark the effect, and his 
face says. That stroke tells ! and so it did, for " the Athenians" are 
not all dead, who " love to see and hear some new thing." But he 
has another arrow in his quiver. Now his features soften — his 
voice is low and thrilling, his imagery beautiful and touching. He 
speaks of human love ; he touches skilfully a chord to which every 
heart vibrates ; and stern manhood is struggling with his tears, ere 
his smiles are chased away. 

Oh, there's intellect there — there's poetry there — there's genius 
there ; but I remember Gethsemane — I forget not Calvary ! I 
know the "rocks were rent," and the "heavens darkened," and 
" the stone rolled away ;" and a cold chill strikes to my heart when 
I hear "Jesus of Nazareth" lightly mentioned. 

Oh, what are intellect, and poetry, and genius, when with Jewish 
voice they cry, '■'- Atvay ivitli Him !" 

With "Mary," let me "bathe his feet with my tears, and wipe 
them with the hairs of my head." 

And so, I " Avent away sorrowful," that this human preacher, with 
such great intellectual possessions, should yet " lack the one thing 
needfuV 



FATHER TAYLOR, THE SAILOR'S PREACHER. 

You have never heard Father Taylor, the Boston Seaman's 
preacher ? Well — you should go down to his church some Sunday. 
It is not at the court end of the town. The urchins in the neigh- 
bourhood are guiltless of shoes or bonnets. You will see quite a 
sprinkling of " Police" at the corners. Green Erin, too, is well 
represented : with a dash of Africa — checked off with "dough faces." 

Let us go into the church : there are no stained-glass windows — 



FANNY FEKN. 479 

no riclily draperied pulpit — no luxurious seats to suggest a nap to 
your sleepy conscience. No odour of patchouli, or nonpareil, or 
bouquet de violet will be wafted across your patrician nose. Your 
satin and broadcloth will fail to procure you the highest seat in 
the synagogue, — they being properly reserved for the " old salts." 

Here they come ! one after another, with horny palms and 
bronzed faces. It stirs my blood, like the sound of a trumpet, to 
see them. The seas they have crossed ! the surging billows they 
have breasted ! the lonely, dismal, weary nights they have kept 
watch ! — the harpies in port who have assailed their generous 
sympathies ! the sullen plash of the sheeted dead, in its vast ocean 
sepulchre ! — what stirring thoughts and emotions do their weather- 
beaten faces call into play ! God bless the sailor ! — Here they come ; 
sure of a welcome — conscious that they are no intruders on aristo- 
cratic landsmen's soil — sure that each added face will send a thrill 
of pleasure to the heart of the good old man, who folds them all, as 
one family, to his patriarchal bosom. 

There he is ! How reverently he drops on his knee, and utters 
that silent prayer. Now he is on his feet. With a quick motion 
he adjusts his spectacles, and says to the tardy tar doubtful of a 
berth, " Room here, brother !" pointing to a seat in the pulpit. 
Jack don't knoAV ahont that ! He can climb the rigging when 
Boreas whistles his fiercest blast ; he can swing into the long boat 
with a stout heart, when creaking timbers are parting beneath him : 
but to mount the pulpit ! — Jack doubts his qualifications, and 
blushes through his mask of bronze. "Room enough, brother!" 
again reassures him ; and, with a little extra fumbling at his tar- 
paulin, and hitching at his waistband, he is soon as much at home 
as though he were on his vessel's deck. 

The hymn is read with a heart-tone. There is no mistaking either 
the poet's meaning or the reader's devotion. And now, if you 
have a " scientific musical ear," (which, thank heaven, I have not,) 
you may criticise the singing, while I am not ashamed of the tears 
that steal down my face, as I mark the effect of good Old Hundred 



480 FANNY FERN. 

(minus trills and flourislies) on Neptune's honest, hearty, whole- 
souled sons. 

The text is announced. There follows no arrangement of dickeys, 
or bracelets, or eye-glasses. You forget your ledger and the 
fashions, the last prima donna, and that your neighbour is not one 
of the " upper ten," as you fix your eye on that good old man, and 
are swept away from worldly moorings by the flowing tide of his 
simple, earnest eloquence. You marvel that these uttered truths 
of his, never struck your thoughtless mind before. My pen fails to 
convey to you the play of expression on that earnest face — those 
emphatic gestures — the starting tear or the thrilling voice ; but they 
all tell on "Jack." 

And now an infant is presented for baptism. The pastor takes 
it on one arm. 0, surely he is himself a father, else it would not 
be poised so gently. Now he holds it up, that all may view its 
dimpled beauty, and says : "Is there one here who doubts, should 
this child die to-day, its right among the blessed ?" One murmured, 
spontaneous No ! bursts from Jack's lips, as the baptismal drops 
lave its sinless temples. Lovingly the little lamb is folded, with a 
kiss and a blessing, to the heart of the earthly shepherd, ere the 
maternal arms receive it. 

Jack looks on and weeps ! And hoAV can he help weeping ? 
He was once as pure as that blessed innocent ! His mother — the 
sod now covers her — often invoked heaven's blessing on Jiej' son ; 
and well he remembers the touch of her gentle hand and the sound 
of her loving voice, as she murmured the imploring prayer for him : 
and how has her sailor boy redeemed his youthful promise ? He 
dashes away his scalding tears with his horny palm ; but, please 
God, that Sabbath, that scene, shall be a talisman upon which 
memory shall ineffaceably inscribe, 

" Go, and sin no more." 



FANNY FERN. 4S1 



THE BABY'S COMPLAINT. 



Now, I suppose you think, because you never see me do any- 
thing but feed and sleep, that I have a very nice time of it. Let 
me tell you that you are mistaken, and that I am tormented half to 
death, although I never say anything about it. How should you 
like every morning to have your nose washed up, instead of doivn ? 
How should you like to have a pin put through your dress into your 
skin, and have to bear it all day till your clothes were taken off at 
night ? How should you like to be held so near the fire that your 
eyes were half scorched out of your head, while your nurse was 
reading a novel? How should you like to have a great fly light on 
your nose, and not know hoAv to take aim at him, with your little, fat, 
useless fingers ? How should you like to be left alone in the room 
to take a nap, and have a great pussy jump into your cradle, and 
sit staring at you with her great green eyes, till you were all of a 
tremble ? How should you like to reach out your hand for the pretty 
bright candle, and find out that it was away across the room, instead 
of close by ? How should you like to tire yourself out crawling way 
across the carpet, to pick up a pretty button or pin, and have it 
snatched away as soon as you begin to enjoy it ? I tell you it is 
enough to ruin any baby's temper. How should you like to have 
your mamma stay at a party till you Avere as hungry as a little cub, 
and be left to the mercy of a nurse, who trotted you up and down 
till every bone in your body ached ? How should you like, when 
your mamma dressed you up all pretty to take the nice, fresh air, 
to spend the afternoon with your nurse in some smoky kitchen, 
while she gossipped with one of her cronies? How should you like 
to submit to have your toes tickled by all the little children who 
insisted upon "seeing the baby's feet?" How should you like to 
have a dreadful pain under your apron, and have everybody call 
you "a little cross thing," when you couldn't speak to tell what 
was the matter with you ? How should you like to crawl to the 

61 



462 FANNY FERN. 

top stair (just to look about a little), and pitch heels over head from 
the top to the bottom ? 

Oh, I can tell you it is no joke to be a baby ! Such a thinking 
as we keep up ; and if we try to find out anything, we are sure to 
get our brains knocked out in the attempt. It is very trying to a 
sensible baby, who is in a hurry to know everything, and can't wait 
to grow up. 



"MILK FOR BABES. 



Once in a while I have a way of thinking !— and to-day it struck 
me that children should have a minister of their own. Yes, a child's 
minister! For amid the "strong meat" for older disciples, the 
"milk for babes" spoken of by the infant, loving Saviour, seems to 
be, strangely enough, forgotten. 

Yes, I remember the "Sabbath Schools;" and God bless and 
prosper them — as far as they go. But — there's your little Charles 
— he says to you on Saturday night, " Mother, what day is it to- 
morrow?" "Sunday, my pet." "Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm so tired 
Sundays." 

Poor Charley ! he goes to church because he is bid — and often 
when he gets there, has the most uncomfortable seat in the pew — 
used as a sort of human drudge, to fill up some triangular corner. 
From one year's end to another, he hears nothing from that pulpit 
he can understand. It is all Greek and Latin to him, those big 
words, and rhetorical flourishes, and theological nuts, thrown out 
for "wisdom-teeth" to crack. So he counts the buttons on his 
jacket, and the bows on his mother's bonnet, and he wonders how 
the feathers in that lady's hat before him can be higher than the 
pulpit or the minister (for he can't see either.) And then he 
wonders, if the chandelier should fall, if he couldn't have one of 
those sparkling glass drops — and then he wonders if Betty will give 
the baby his humming top to play with before he gets home — and 
whether his mother will have apple dumplings for dinner ? And 



FANNY FERN. 483 

then he explores his Sunday pocket for the absent string and marble, 
and then his little toes get so fidgety that he can't stand it, and he 
says out loud, "hi — ho — hum !" and then he gets a very red ear 
from his father, for disturbing his comfortable nap in particular, and 
the rest of the congregation generally. 

Yes, I'd have a church for children, if I could only find a minister 
who Tcneiv enougli to preach to them ! You needn't smile ! It needs 
a very long head to talk to a child. It is much easier to talk to 
older people whose brains are so cobwebbed with "isms" and " olo- 
gies," that you can make them lose themselves when they get 
troublesome ; but that straight-forward, childish, far-reaching ques- 
tion ! and the next — and the next ! That clear, penetrating, search- 
ing, yet innocent and trusting eye ! How will you meet them ? 
You'll be astonished to find how often you'll be cornered by that 
little child — how many difficulties he will raise, that will require all 
your keenest wits to clear away. Oh, you must get off your cleri- 
cal stilts, and drop your metaphors and musty folios, and call every- 
thing by its right name when you talk to children. 

Yes, I repeat it. Children should have a minister. Not a 
gentleman in a stiff neck-cloth and black coat, who says solemnly, 
in a sepulchral voice (once a year on his parochial visit,) — 
" S-a-m-u-e-1 — my — boy — how — do — you — do?" but a genial, warm- 
hearted, loving, spiritual father, who is neither wiser, nor greater, 
nor better than he who took little children in his arms and said, 
" Of such is the kingdom of heaven." 



UNCLE JOLLY. 



" "Well, I declare ! here it is New Year's morning again, and 
cold as Greenland, too," said Uncle Jolly, as he poked his cotton 
night-cap out of bed ; " frost an inch thick on the windows, water 
all fi-ozen in the pitcher, and I an old bachelor. Heigho ! nobody 



484 FANNY FERN. 

to give any presents to — no little feet to come patting up to my bed 
to wisli me 'A liappy New Year.' Miserable piece of business! 
Wonder -what ever became of that sister of mine "who ran off with 
that poor artist ? Wish she'd turn up somewhere with two or three 
children for me to love and pet. Heigh-ho ! It's a miserable piece 
of business to be an old bachelor." 

And Uncle Jolly broke the ice in the basin Avith his frost-nipped 
fingers, and buttoned his dressing-gown tightly to his chin ; then he 
went down stairs, swallowed a cup of coffee, an egg, and a slice of 
toast. Then he buttoned his surtout snugly up over them, and went 
out the front door into the street. 

Such a crowd as there was buying New Year's presents. The 
toy-shops were filled with grandpas and grandmas, and aunts and 
uncles, and cousins. As to the shopkeepers, what with telling 
prices, answering forty questions in a minute, and doing up parcels, 
they were as crazy as a bachelor tending a crying baby. 

Uncle Jolly slipped along over the icy pavements, and finally 
halted in front of Tim Nonesuch's toy shop. You should have seen 
his show windows ! Beautiful English dolls at five dollars a-piece, 
dressed like Queen Vic's babies, with such plump little shoulders 
and arms that one longed to pinch 'em ; and tea sets, and dinner 
sets, cunning enough for a fairy to keep house with" Then, there 
were dancing Jacks, and jumping Jenny's, and "Topsys," and 
" Uncle Toms" as black as the chimney back, with wool made of a 
ravelled black stocking. Then, there were little work-boxes with 
gold thimbles and bodkins, and scissors in crimson velvet cases, and 
snakes that squirmed so naturally as to make you hop up on the 
table to get out of the way, and little innocent-looking boxes con- 
taining a little spry mouse, that jumped into your face as soon as 
you raised the lid, and music boxes to place under your pillows when 
you had drank too strong a cup of green tea, and vinaigrettes that 
you could hold to your nose to keep you from fainting when you 
saw a dandy. Oh ! I can tell you that Mr. Nonesuch understood 
keeping a toy shop ; there were plenty of carriages always in front 



FANNY FERN. 485 

of it, plenty of taper fingei'S pulling over his wares, and plenty of 
husbands and fathers who returned thanks that New Year's didn't 
come every day ! 

"Don't stay here, dear Susy, if it makes you cry," said the 
elder of two little girls ; "I thought you said it would make you 
happy to come out and look at the New Year's presents, though we 
couln't have any." 

" I did think so," said Susy ; " but it makes me think of last 
New Year's, Avhen you and I lay cuddled together in our little bed, 
and papa came creeping up m his slippers, thinking we were asleep, 
and laid our presents on the table, and then kissed us both, and 
said, ' God bless the little darlings !' Oh ! Katy — all the little 
girls in that shop have their papa's with them. I want my papa," 
and little Susy laid her head on Katy's shoulder, and sobbed as if 
her heart was breaking. 

"Don't, dear Susy," said Katy, wiping away her own tears with 
her little pinafore ; " don't cry — mamma will see how red your eyes 
are, — poor, sick, tired mamma, — don't cry, Susy." 

" Oh, Katy, I can't help it. See that tall man with the black 
whiskers (don't he look like papa ?) kissing that little girl. Oh ! 
Katy," and Susy's tears flowed afresh. 

Uncle Jolly couldn't stand it any longer ; — he rushed into the 
toy shop, bought an armful of playthings helter-skelter, and ran 
after the two little girls. 

" Here, Susy ! here, Katy !" said he, " here are some New Year's 
presents from Uncle Jolly." 

"Who is Uncle Jolly?" 

" Well, he's uncle to all the Door little children who have no kind 
papa. 

"Now, where do you live, little pigeons? — got far to go? — toes 
all out your shoes here in January ? Don't like it, — my toes ain't 
out my shoes ; — come in here, and let's see if we can find anything 
to cover them. There, now (fitting them both to a pair), that's 
something like ; it will puzzle Jack Frost to find your toes now. 
Cotton clothes on ? I don't wear cotton clothes ; — come in here 



486 FANNY FERN. 

and get some woollen shawls. Which do you like best, red, green, 
or blue ? — plaids or stripes, hey ? 

" ' Mother won't like it ?' Don't talk to me ; — mothers don't 
generally scratch people's eyes out for being kind to their little 
ones. I'll take care of that, little puss. Uncle Jolly's going home 
with you. ' How do I know whether you have got any dinner or 
not?' I've got a dinner — you shall have a dinner, too. Pity if I 
can't have my own way — New Year's day, too, 

" That your home ? p-h-e-w ! I don't know about trusting my 
old bones up those rickety stairs, — old bones are hard to mend ; did 
you know that?" 

Little Susy opened the door, and Uncle Jolly walked in, — their 
mamma turned her head, then with one wild cry of joy threw her 
arms about his neck, while Susy and Katy stood in the doorway, 
uncertain whether to laugh or cry. 

"Come here, come here," said Uncle Jolly; "I didn't know I 
was so near the truth this morning when I called myself your Uncle 
Jolly ; I didn' t know what made my heart leap so when I saw you 
there in the street. Come here, I say ; don't you ever shed another 
tear ; — you see I don't," — and Jolly tried to smile, as he drew his 
coat sleeve across his eyes. 

Was'nt that a merry New Year's night in Uncle Jolly's little 
parlour ? Wasn't the fire warm and bright ? Were not the tea 
cakes nice ? Didn't Uncle Jolly make them eat till he had tight- 
ened their ^pron strings? Were their toes ever out of their shoes 
again ? Did they wear cotton shawls in January ? Did cruel land- 
lords ever again make their mamma tremble and cry? 

In the midst of all this plenty, did they forget " papa ?" No, no ! 
Whenever little Susy met in the street a tall, princely man with 
large black whiskers, she'd look at Katy and nod her little curly 
head sorrowfully, as much as to say — " Oh, Katy, I never — never 
can forget my oivn dear papa." 



FANNY FE EN. 487 



THANKSGIVIXa STOKY. 

"Mary!" said the younger of two little girls, as they nestled 
under a coarse coverlid, one cold night in December, " tell me about 
Thanksgiving-day before papa went to heaven. I'm cold and hungry, 
and I can't go to sleep ; — I want something nice to think about." 

" Hush !" said the elder child, "don't let dear mamma hear you; 
come nearer to me;" — and they laid their cheeks together. 

" I fancy papa was rich. We lived in a very nice house. I 
know there were pretty pictures on the wall ; and there were nice 
velvet chairs, and the carpet was thick and soft, like the green moss- 
patches in the wood ; — and we had pretty gold-fish on the side-table, 
and Tony, my black nurse, used to feed them. And papa ! — you 
can't remember papa, Letty, — he was tall and grand, like a prince, 
and when he smiled he made me think of angels. He brought me 
toys and sweetmeats, and carried me out to the stable, and set me 
on Romeo's live back, and laughed because I was afraid ! And I 
used to watch to see him come up the street, and then run to the 
door to jump in his arms; — he was a dear kind papa," said the 
child, in a faltering voice. 

" Don't cry," said the little one ; " please tell me some more." 

"Well, Thanksgiving-day we were so happy; we sat around such 
a large table, with so many people, — aunts and uncles and cousins, 
— I can't think why they never come to see us now, Letty, — and 
Betty made such sweet pies, and we had a big — big turkey ; and 
papa would have me sit next to him, and gave me the wish-bone, 
and all the plums out of his pudding ; and after dinner he would 
take me in his lap, and tell me 'Red Riding Hood,' and call me 
'pet,' and 'bird,' and 'fairy.' 0, Letty, I can't tell any more; I 
believe I'm going to cry." 

"I'm very cold," said Letty. "Does papa know, up in heaven, 
that we are poor and hungry now ?" 

"Yes — no — I can't tell," answered Mary, wiping away her tears; 



488 FANNY FERN. 

unable to reconcile lier ideas of heaven with such a thought. " Hush ! 
— mamma will hear !" 

Mamma had " heard." The coarse garment, upon ■which she had 
toiled since sunrise, dropped from her hands, and tears were forcing 
themselves, thick and fast, through her closed eyelids. The simple 
recital found but too sad an echo in that widowed heart. 



ALICE CAKEY. 



Miss Alice Carey is a native of Mt. Healthy, Hamilton county, Ohio, 
and is descended from a New England family, her father having emigrated 
from Vermont at the period of the first settlement of the country near 
Cincinnati. Her first appearance in print was as the writer of occasional 
poems in the neighbouring journals; and one of her earliest eff"usions was 
the song commencing 

"Among the beautiful pictures 
Which hang in Memory's hall," 

which Edgar A. Poe pronounced the finest from the genius of any American 
woman. Miss Carey subsequently wrote a series of prose sketches and 
essays in the National Era, under the signature of "Patty Lee," and 
having previously (in 1848), in connexion with her sister, Miss Phoebe 
Carey, published in Philadelphia a volume of *' Poems," she brought out 
her first prose work in New York, in 1851, under the title of " Clovernook, 
or Recollections of our Neighbourhood in the West." The success of this 
was immediate and very great, both in this country, and in England, where 
several editions appeared in rapid succession, and in Germany and France, 
where it was published in translations. J. Gr. Whittier, in a review of the 
book said, " These sketches bear the true stamp of genius — simple, natural, 
truthful — and evince a keen sense of the humour and pathos of the comedy 
and tragedy of life in the country. No one who has ever read it can for- 
get the sad and beautiful story of Mary Wildermings ; its weird fancy, 
tenderness, and beauty; its touching description of the emotions of a sick 
and suffering human spirit, and its exquisite rural pictures. The moral 
tone of Alice Carey's writings is unobjectionable always." Similar 
opinions were expressed by Fitz Greene Halleck, and many other dis- 

62 (489) 



490 ALICE CAREY. 

tinguished critics; and the AVestminster Review declared the author su- 
perior to any other female writer in America. 

Miss Carey's next work, published a few months afterward, was '' Hagar, 
a Story of To-Day." It was written to counteract what the author supposed 
to be the sceptical tendencies of several recent novels, for the most part 
by women, and its ethical purpose prevented the freedom in the dramatic 
management of the story which might have made it more popular and 
eifective as a work of art ; yet it unquestionably possessed great merits in 
the delineation of character, the exhibition of manners, and moral analysis. 
In 1852 she published "Lyra, and other Poems;" in 1853 a second series 
of " Clovernook," which has been even more popular than the first ; and in 
1854, at Boston, a new collection of "Poems," including one of several 
thousand lines, entitled " The Tlascalan Maiden, a Romance of the Golden 
Age of Tezcuco." She has also published a new novel in the National 
Era, under the title of "Hollywood." 

In " Clovernook," her principal and best known work. Miss Carey 
attempted to describe the frequent American phenoinenon of a village 
suddenly growing up in the wilderness, and the advance of its humble 
society until the scene becomes to some degree one of intelligence, refine- 
ment, and fashion. Her characters are remarkable, considering their 
variety, for fidelity to nature, and her sentiments are marked by womanly 
delicacy, humanity, and reverence for religion, while over all is the charm 
of a powerful imagination, with frequent manifestations of the most quiet 
and delicious humour. 



ALICE CAREY. 491 



MRS. HILL AND MRS. TROOST. 

It was just two o'clock of one of the warmest of the July after- 
noons. Mrs. Hill had her dinner all over, had put on her clean 
cap and apron, and was sitting on the north porch, making an 
unbleached cotton shirt for Mr. Peter Hill, who always wore un- 
bleached shirts at harvest time. Mrs. Hill was a thrifty housewife. 
She had been pursuing this economical avocation for some little 
time, interrupting herself only at times to "s/m.'" away the flocks 
of half-grown chickens that came noisily about the door for the 
crumbs from the table-cloth, when the sudden shutting down of 
a great blue cotton umbrella caused her to drop her work, and 
exclaim — 

" "Well, now, Mrs. Troost ! who would have thought you ever 
would come to see me !" 

"Why, I have thought a great many times I would come," said 
the visiter, stamping her little feet — for she was a little woman — 
briskly on the blue flag stones, and then dusting them nicely with 
her white cambric handkerchief, before venturing on the snowy 
floor of Mrs. Hill. And, shaking hands, she added, " It has been 
a good while, for I remember when I was here last I had my Jane 
with me — quite a baby then, if you mind — and she is three years 
old now." 

"Is it possible ?" said Mrs. Hill, untying the bonnet strings of 
her neighbour, who sighed, as she continued, " Yes, she was three 
along in February ;" and she sighed again, more heavily than 
before, though there was no earthly reason that I know of why she 
should sigh, unless perhaps the flight of time, thus brought to mind, 
suggested the transitory nature of human things. 

Mrs. Hill laid the bonnet of Mrs. Troost on her " spare bed," 
and covered it with a little, pale-blue crape shawl, kept especially 
for like occasions ; and, taking from the drawer of the bureau a 
large fan of turkey feathers, she presented it to her guest, saying, 
" A very warm day, isn't it ?" 



492 ALICE CAREY. 

" Oh, dreadful, dreadful ; it seems as hot as a bake oven ; and 
I suffer with the heat all summer, more or less. But it's a world 
of suffering;" and Mrs. Troost half closed her eyes, as if to shut 
out the terrible reality, 

" Hay-making requires sunshiny weather, you know ; so we must 
put up with it," said Mrs. Hill; "besides, I can mostly find some 
cool place about the house ; I keep my sewing here on the porch, 
and, as I bake my bread or cook my dinner, manage to catch it up 
sometimes, and so keep from getting overheated ; and then, too, I 
get a good many stitches taken in the course of the day." 

" This is a nice, cool place — completely curtained with vines," 
said Mrs. Troost ; and she sighed again ; " they must have cost 
you a great deal of pains." 

" Oh, no — no trouble at all ; morning-glories grow themselves ; 
they only require to be planted. I will save seed for you this fall, 
and next summer you can have your porch as shady as mine." 

"And if I do, it would not signify," said Mrs. Troost; "I 
never get time to sit down from one week's end to another ; 
besides, I never had any luck with vines ; some folks haven't, you 
know." 

Mrs. Hill was a woman of a short, plethoric habit ; one that 
might be supposed to move about with little agility, and to find 
excessive warmth rather inconvenient ; but she was of a happy, 
cheerful temperament ; and when it rained she tucked up her 
skirts, put on thick shoes, and waddled about the same as ever, 
saying to herself, "This will make the grass grow," or "it will 
bring on the radishes," or something else equally consolatory. 

Mrs. Troost, on the contrary, was a little thin woman, who 
looked as though she might move about nimbly at any season ; 
but, as she herself often said, she was a poor unfortunate creature, 
and pitied herself a great deal, as she was in justice bound to do, 
for nobody else cared, she said, how much she had to bear. 

They were near neighbours — these good women — but their social 
interchanges of tea-drinking were not of very frequent occurrence, 
for sometimes Mrs. Troost had nothing to wear like other folks; 



ALICE CAREY. 493 

sometimes it was too hot, and sometimes it was too cold ; and then 
again, nobody wanted to see her, and she was sure she didn't want 
to go where she wasn't wanted. Moreover, she had such a great 
barn of a house as no other woman ever had to take care of. But 
in all the neighbourhood it was called the big house, so Mrs. Troost 
was in some measure compensated for the pains it cost her. It 
was, however, as she said, a barn of a place, Avith half the rooms 
unfurnished, partly because they had no use for them, and partly 
because they were unable to get furniture. So it stood right in 
the sun, with no shutters, and no trees about it, and Mrs. Troost 
said she didn't suppose it ever would have. She was always 
opposed to building it, but she never had her way about anything. 
Nevertheless, some people said Mr. Troost had taken the dimen- 
sions of his house with his wife's apron strings — but that may have 
been slander. 

While Mrs. Troost sat sighing over things in general, Mrs. Hill 
sewed on the last button, and shaking the loose threads from the 
completed garment, held it up a moment to take a satisfactory 
view, as it were, and folded it away. 

"Well, did you ever!" said Mrs. Troost; "you have made half 
a shirt, and I have got nothing at all done. My hands sweat so I 
can't use the needle, and it's no use to try." 

" Lay down your work for a little while, and we will walk in the 
garden." 

So Mrs. Hill threw a towel over her head, and taking a little tin 
basin in her hand, the two went to the garden — Mrs. Troost under 
the shelter of the blue umbrella, which she said was so heavy that 
it was worse than nothing. Beans, radishes, raspberries, and cur- 
rants, besides many other things, were there in profusion, and Mrs. 
Troost said everything flourished for Mrs. Hill, while her gai'den 
was all choked up with weeds. " And you have bees, too — don't 
they sting the children, and give you a great deal of trouble ? 
Along in May, I guess it was, Troost (Mrs. Troost always called 
her husband so) bought a hive, or rather he traded a calf for one — 



494 ALICE CAREY. 

a nice, likely calf, too, it was — and they never did us one bit of 
good" — and the unhappy woman sighed. 

"They do say," said Mrs. Hill, sympathizingly, "that bees 
won't work for some folks ; in case their king dies they are very 
likely to quarrel, and not do well ; but we have never had any ill 
luck with ours ; and we last year sold forty dollars worth of honey, 
besides having all we wanted for our own use. Did yours die oiF, 
or what, Mrs. Troost?" 

"Why," said the ill-natured visiter, "my oldest boy got stung 
one day, and, being angry, upset the hive, and I never found it out 
for two or three days ; and, sending Troost to put it up in its place, 
there was not a bee to be found high or low." 

"You don't tell! the obstinate little creatures! but they must 
be treated kindly, and I have heard of their going off for less 
things." 

The basin Avas by this time filled with currants, and they returned 
to the house. Mrs. Hill, seating herself on the sill of the kitchen 
door, began to prepare her fruit for tea, while Mrs. Troost drew her 
chair near, saying, " Did you ever hear about William M'Micken's 
bees?" 

Mrs. Hill had never heard, and expressing an anxiety to do so, 
was told the following story : 

" His wife, you know, was she that was Sally May, and it's an 
old saying — 

' To change the name and not the letter, 
You marry for worse, and not for better.' 

" Sally was a dressy, extravagant girl ; she had her bonnet 
' done up' twice a year always, and there was no end to her frocks 
and ribbons and fine things. Her mother indulged her in every- 
thing ; she used to say Sally deserved all she got ; that she was 
worth her weight in gold. She used to go everywhere, Sally did. 
There was no big meeting that she was not at, and no quilting that 
she didn't help to get up. All the girls went to her for the 



ALICE CAREY. 495 

fashions, for she was a good deal in town at her Aunt Hanner's, 
and always brought out the new patterns. She used to have her 
sleeves a little bigger than anybody else, you remember, and then 
she wore great stiffners in them — la, me ! there was no end to her 
extravagance. 

" She had a changeable silk, yellow and blue, made with a sur- 
plus front ; and when she wore that, the ground wasn't good enough 
for her to walk on, so some folks used to say ; but I never thought 
Sally was a bit proud or lifted up ; and if anybody was sick, there 
was no better-hearted creature than she ; and then, she was always 
good-natured as the day was long, and would sing all the time at 
her work. I remember, along before she was married, she used to 
sing one song a great deal, beginning 

' I've got a sweetheart with bright black eyes ;' 

and they said she meant William M'Micken by that, and that she 
might not get him after all — for a good many thought they would 
never make a match, their dispositions were so contrary. William 
was of a dreadful quiet turn, and a great home body ; and as for 
being rich, he had nothing to brag of, though he was high larnt, 
and followed the river as dark sometimes." 

Mrs. Hill had by this time prepared her currants, and Mrs. 
Troost paused from her story while she filled the kettle, and 
attached the towel to the end of the well-sweep, where it waved as 
a signal for Peter to come to supper. 

" Now, just move your chair a leetle nearer the kitchen door, if 
you please," said Mrs. Hill, "and I can make up my biscuit, and 
hear you, too." 

Meantime, coming to the door with some bread-crumbs in her 
hand, she began scattering them on the ground, and calling, 
"Biddy, biddy, biddy — chicky, chicky, chicky" — hearing which, 
a whole flock of poultry was about her in a minute ; and stooping 
down, she secured one of the fattest, which, an hour afterwards, 
was broiled for supper. 

"Dear me, how easily you do get along !" said Mrs. Troost. 



496 ALICE CAREY. 

And it was some time before she could compose herself suffi- 
ciently to take up the thread of her story. At length, however, 
she began with — 

"Well, as I was saying, nobody thought William M'Micken 
would marry Sally May. Poor man, they say he is not like him- 
self any more. He may get a dozen wives, but he'll never get 
another Sally. A good wife she made him, for all she was such a 
wild girl. 

" The old man May was opposed to the marriage, and threatened 
to turn Sally, his own daughter, out of house and home ; but she 
was headstrong, and would marry whom she pleased ; and so she did, 
though she never got a stitch of new clothes, nor one thing to keep 
house with. No ; not one single thing did her father give her, 
when she went away, but a hive of bees. He was right down ugly, 
and called her Mrs. M'Micken whenever he spoke to her after she 
was married ; but Sally didn't seem to mind it, and took just as 
good care of the bees as though they were worth a thousand dollars. 
Every day in winter she used to feed them — maple-sugar, if she 
had it; and if not, a little Muscovade in a saucer or some old 
broken dish. 

" But it happened one day that a bee stung her on the hand — 
the right one, I think it was, — and Sally said right away that it 
was a bad sign ; and that very night she dreamed that she went 
out to feed her bees, and a piece of black crape was tied on the 
hive. She felt that it was a token of death, and told her husband 
so, and she told me and Mrs. Hanks. No, I won't be sure she told 
Mrs. Hanks, but Mrs. Hanks got to hear it some way." 

"Well," said Mrs. Hill, wiping the tears away with her apron, 
"I really didn't know, till now, that poor Mrs. M'Micken was 
dead." 

" Oh, she is not dead," answered Mrs. Troost, " but as well as 
she ever was, only she feels that she is not long for this world." 
The painful interest of her story, however, had kept her from 
work, so the afternoon passed without her having accomplished 
much — she never could work when she went visiting. 



ALICE CAREY. 497 

Meantime Mrs. Hill had prepared a delightful supper, without 
seeming to give herself the least trouble, Peter came precisely at 
the right moment, and, as he drew a pail of water, removed the 
towel from the well-sweep, easily and naturally, thus saving his 
wife the trouble. 

" Troost would never have thought of it," said his wife; and 
she finished with an " Ah, well !" as though her tribulations would 
be over before long. 

As she partook of the delicious honey, she was reminded of her 
own upset hive, and the crisp-red radishes brought thoughts of the 
weedy garden at home ; so that, on the whole, her visit, she said, 
made her perfectly wretched, and she should have no heart for a 
week ; nor did the little basket of extra nice fruit, which Mrs. Hill 
presented her as she was about to take leave, heighten her spirits 
in the least. Her great heavy umbrella, she said, was burden 
enough for her, 

"But Peter will take you in the carriage," insisted Mrs. Hill. 

"No," said Mrs. Troost, as though charity were offered her; 
"it will be more trouble to get in and out than to walk" — and so 
she trudged home, saying, " Some folks are born to be lucky." 



63 



FRANCES MIUIAM BEERY. 

(the "widow bedott.") 

Frances Miriam Berry was born Nov. 1, 1812, at Whitesboro, a vil- 
lage of central New York lying near tbe banks of tbe Mobawk, and tbere 
spent tbe greater portion of her life. In ber veins flowed tbe mingled 
blood of tbe Englisb and Scotcb races. Perbaps from tbe first, which was 
on the maternal side, she inherited the wonderful humorous talent — from 
the other, the rectitude of purpose and strong veneration — that marked her 
character. 

One of the first indications of her remarkable intellect was a strong 
memory, which was displayed, to the delighted admiration of her family 
circle, in remembering poetry. "When only two years old — yet ignorant 
of A B C — she is said to have repeated accurately Wordsworth's exquisite 
ballad of " We are Seven ;" and, when a little older, that equally touching 
poem of Montgomery's, " The Vigil of St. Mark." 

A few years later, she began making rhymes herself; seizing upon some 
trifling domestic scenes, whether serious or amusing, as subjects; dictating, 
before learning to use a pen, to some older member of the family. Some 
of these childish productions are still preserved. She also showed a decided 
taste for drawing, was intensely interested in fine pictures, and seemed to 
have an intuitive perception of what was correct in tbe art. Her sense of 
the ridiculous was so strong as to prompt her to indulge in caricature, a 
propensity that afterwards exposed ber to tbe censures of unappreciating 
and dull-minded people. Her first attempt to draw, when she was about 
five years old, was inspired by the strikingly ugly visage of a neighbour, a 
man of excessively polished exterior, a gentleman of the old school, whose 
efforts to win tbe confidence of the interesting child only served to terrify 
and repel ber. 

Seeing him one day absorbed in a newspaper, sbe mounted a chair, at a 
high writing-desk, and " drew bis likeness." In tbe midst of her artistic 
labours, he laid aside bis paper, and, observing ber occupation, walked to 

C498) 



FRANCES MIRIAM BERRY. 499 

the desk, inquiring, with a profound bow, " "What are you doing, my little 
dear ? Writing a letter to your sweetheart ?" Such a question completed 
her disgust and alarm ; she caught up her unfinished production, and ran 
to another apartment. 

In a letter written towards the close of her life, she thus alludes to this 
feature of her childhood. 

" You possess the happy faculty of drawing all hearts at once to you ; 
but I, unfortunately, do not. And I will tell you what I believe to be the 
secret of it : I received, at my birth, the undesirable gift of a remarkably 
strong sense of the ridiculous. I can scarcely remember the time when the 
neighbours were not afraid that I would 'make fun of them.' For indulg- 
ing in this propensity, I was scolded at home, and wept over and prayed 
with, by certain well-meaning old maids in the neighbourhood ; but all to 
no purpose. The only reward of their labours was frequently their like- 
nesses drawn in charcoal and pinned to the corners of their shawls, with, 
perhaps, a descriptive verse below. Of course I had not many friends, even 
among my own playmates. And yet, at the bottom of all this deviltry, 
there was a warm, affectionate heart. If any were really kind to me, how I 
loved them I" 

Her school education was more varied than beneficial. Her first teacher 
was a sour-faced woman, who knocked the alphabet with her thimble into the 
heads of a little group of unruly children, at so much " a quarter," with 
small love, and no just appreciation of the dawning minds under her care. 

Her experience under the sway of this woman was thoroughly delightful 
compared with the ordeal which she next underwent. Being transferred, 
after a few months, to the village academy, placed under a man's tuition 
and the care of older playmates, it was thought that she would learn faster 
and be more safe than among children of her own age. 

Woe worth the day to the little creature ! The pedagogue was a stern, 
cruel, vindictive man, who literally whipped knowledge into his pupils' 
noddles, and in his hands the rod and ferule were never idle. In this 
school, before she had completed her sixth year, Miriam passed some mise- 
rable months. The little ones, indeed, were whipped with less severity than 
fell to the lot of young misses and half-grown boys, who felt the full mea- 
sure of his ungovernable rage. But light as may have been her punish- 
ments, they were doubtless too heavy for her misdeeds, which were nothing 
worse than indulging a childish desire for fun or play, while made to sit 
three hours together on a backless bench. 

It was a happy day for Miriam when the term closed, and the cruel 

A was discharged. He has gone to his account. May he receive 

more mercy from Heaven than he meted out to Christ's little ones here ! 

A second time little Miriam was introduced within the walls of the 
Academy, but under a new and quite different dynasty. The principal was 
the kindest-hearted and most indulgent of pedagogues, well skilled in 



500 FEAXCES MIRIAM BEKRY. 

mathematics and learned in all classic lore ; greatly successful, moreover, 
in " fitting young men for college," as the phrase goes. But the younger 
fry were left to take care of themselves, or, at most, received a kind of 
desultory instruction from some older pupil, -while their misbehaviour was 
kindly overlooked by the classical master. 

Her slate did not always present the sums in addition duly set, which it 
ought to have done. The stiff, tallowed locks and long-nosed visages of the 
serious, matter-of-fact young men, intently poring over their Virgils and 
Latin grammars, on the opposite side of the room, were oftener transferred 
by her pencil to its surface. She could no more keep fi-om drawing a striking 
or peculiar set of features than she could stop her heart's beating ; but she 
had no thought of giving pain, and was unwilling to have her pictures seen. 

Her copybook presented an appearance very unlike those of her school- 
mates. She followed no formally set copy, but wrote little poems which 
had struck her fancy in reading, interspersed with an occasional verse of 
her own, the margins being adorned with heads and various devices, some- 
thing after the ancient fashion, modernly revived, of embellishing books. 

Two or three years' attendance at school under the nominal instruction 
of this indulgent master and his successors, with an occasional winter 
passed in studying at home, where she was taught by an older relative, 
brought Miriam to her teens. 

An association, partly social and partly literary in its design, was formed 
in Miriam's native village, the members of which met semi-monthly for 
reading, music, and conversation. Their gatherings took place at the resi- 
dences of the menibers, were agreeable, informal, and not without benefit 
particularly in the way of encouraging literary tastes and promoting refine- 
ment of manners. The reading matter, in accordance with the rules of 
the society, being mostly furnished by the pens of the members them- 
selves, this unambitious association was the means of eliciting much latent 
ability. 

Being induced to join them, Miriam wrote occasionally a little poem or 
a light essay, the latter always in a mirthful or slightly satirical strain, and 
well received by the listeners. Afterwards, for the entertainment of 
several successive gatherings, she produced a humorous tale in chapters. 
Taking for her test the absurdities of the " Children of the Abbey," and 
kindred works, she led her heroine, a vain, ignorant girl, with a head full 
of the notions which such fictions would create in a weak mind, through 
many ludicrous scenes and adventures, and having chosen her own vicinity 
as the theatre and country life as the illustrating link of the tale, it was 
made vastly amusing and popular in the opinion of her friends. A chap- 
ter of " Widow Spriggins' Recollections" was ever sure of a welcome, and 
an evening without a production from Miriam's easy and versatile pen was 
pronounced dull. 

In the summer of 1846, a warm personal friend of Miriam's, himself a 



FRANCES MIRIAM BERRY. 501 

contributor to "Neal's Gazette," prevailed upon her to forward a few of 
her little poems to Mr. Neal. The poems were speedily published with 
laudatory notices, and such a reply given as to determine Miriam on 
beginning a series of prose articles for the Grazette, under the title of 
" Widow Bedott's Table-Talk. " She chose the style in which those pieces 
were written as being one in which she had already, in a small sphere, 
been successful in pleasing. It is needless to dwell upon the applause with 
which the first chapters were received by the public. They were univer- 
sally regarded as the best Yankee papers then written, and indeed they 
have not yet been excelled. 

Yet nothing was sufficient to prevent her constitutional timidity and self- 
distrust from suggesting the thought of failure, and a wish to lay aside the 
pen. So she wrote to Mr. Neal, expressing her doubts as to proceeding. 

Mr. Neal's well-timed approbation, joined to other considerations, induced 
her to proceed with the " Table-Talk," of which in the following spring she 
began a new series. 

On the 6th of January, 1847, she was married to the Eev. B. W. 
Whitcher, of the Episcopal Church, and removed to the western part of 
the State. Yet amid the cares of housekeeping and the difficult duties of 
her station as a clergyman's wife, she found time, while never neglecting 
any occupation that devolved upon her, to write for the press. 

Miriam's rare and mirth-moving articles having attracted the notice of 
Mr. Godey, she complied with his request to enrich the pages of the 
" Lady's Book" with productions of a like nature, and under the name of 
" Aunt Maguire," began a series for that Magazine. 

Besides those pieces under the caption of '' Aunt Maguire," she furnished 
a few in a difi"erent style for the '* Lady's Book," entitled " Letters from 
Timberville," which were exceedingly popular. 

" Mrs. Mudlaw's Recipe for Potato Pudding," which appeared in the 
" Philadelphia Saturday Gazette," about the close of the year 1850, was 
the last of her productions published in her lifetime. It is a most amusing 
sketch, showing striking marks of the vigour of her pen in the delineation 
of character in various spheres. 

In the autumn of 1850, the symptoms of the fatal malady, which finally 
carried her off, began to develop themselves. She sank gradually and 
serenely to her close, which took place on the 4th of January, 1852. 

Her writings have never been published in a collected form. They lie 
scattered chiefly through the pages of Godey, and of Neal's Gazette. A 
judicious selection from them, and from her unpublished manuscripts, of 
which it is understood her friends have quite a large number, would be a 
valuable addition to our literature, and would be likely to hold a permanent 
place there. 



502 FRANCES MISIAM BEERY. 

MRS. MUDLAW'S EECIPE FOR POTATO PUDDINa. 

Mrs. Mudlaw was a short, fat woman, with a broad, red face — 
such a person as a stranger would call the very personification of good 
nature ; though I have never found fat people to be any more amiable 
than lean ones. Certainly, Mrs. Mudlaw was not a very sweet-tem- 
pered woman. On this occasion, she felt rather more cross than 
usual, forced, as she was, to give one of her receipts to a nobody. 
She, however, knew the necessity of assuming a pleasant demeanour 
at that time, and accordingly entered the nursery with an encourag- 
ing grin on her blazing countenance. Mrs. Philpot, fearing lest her 
cook's familiarity might belittle her mistress in the eyes of Mrs. 
Darling, and asking to be excused for a short time, went into the 
library, a nondescript apartment, dignified by that name, which com- 
municated with the nursery. The moment she left her seat, a large 
rocking-chair, Mudlaw dumped herself down in it, exclaiming — 

" Miss Philpot says you want to get my receipt for potater pud- 
din' ?" 

"Yes," replied Mrs. Darling. "I would be obliged to you for 
the directions." And she took out of her pocket a pencil and paper 
to write it down. 

" Well, 'tis an excellent puddin*," said Mudlaw, complacently ; 
"for my part, I like it about as well as any puddin' I make, and 
that's sayin' a good deal, I can tell you, for I understand makin' a 
great variety. 'Tain't so awful rich as some, to be sure. Now, 
there's the Cardinelle puddin', and the Washington puddin', and the 
Lay Fayette puddin', and the — " 

" Yes. Mr. Darling liked it very much — how do you make it ?" 

" Wal, I peel my potaters and bile 'em in fair water. I always 
let the water bile before I put 'em in. Some folks let their potaters 
lie and sog in the water ever so long, before it biles ; but I think it 
spiles 'em. I always make it a pint to have the water bile — " 

" How many potatoes ?" 

" Wal, I always take about as many potaters as I think I shall 



FRANCES MIRIAM BERRY. 503 

want. I'm generally governed by the size of the puddin' I want to 
make. If it's a large puddin', why I take quite a number, but if 
it's a small one, why, then I don't take as many. As quick as 
they're done, I take 'em up and mash 'em as fine as I can get 'em. 
I'm ahvays very partic'lar about that — some folks ain't ; they'll let 
their potaters be full o' lumps, /never do ; if there's anything I hate, 
it's lumps in potaters. I wont have 'em. Whether I'm mashin' 
potaters for puddin's or for vegetable use, I mash it till there ain't 
the size of a lump in it. If I can't git it fine without sifting, why, 
I sift it. Once in a while, when I'm otherways engaged, I set the 
girl to mashin' on't. Wal, she'll give it three or four jams, and come 
along, ' Miss Mudlaw, is the potater fine enough V Jubiter Ram- 
min ! that's the time I come as near gittin' mad as I ever allow 
myself to come, for I make it a pint never to have lumps — " 

" Yes, I know it is very important. What next ?" 

" Wal, then I put in my butter ; in winter time I melt it a little, 
not enough to make it ily, but jest so's to soften it." 

" How much butter does it require ?" 

" Wal, I always take butter accordin' to the size of the puddin' ; 
a large puddin' needs a good sized lump o' butter, but not too much. 
And I'm always partic'lar to have my butter fresh and sweet. 
Some folks think it's no matter what sort o' butter they use for 
cookin', but I don't. Of all things, I do despise strong, frowy, 
rancid butter. For pity's sake, have your butter fresh." 

" How much butter did you say ?" 

" Wal, that depends, as I said before, on what sized puddin' you 
want to make. And another thing that regulates the quantity 
of butter I use is the 'mount o' cream I take. I always put in 
more or less cream ; when I have abundance o' cream, I put in 
considerable, and when it's scarce, why, I use more butter than I 
otherways should. But you must be partic'lar not to get in too 
much cream. There's a great deal in havin' jest the right quantity ; 
and so 'tis with all the ingrejiences. There ain't a better puddin' 
in the world than a potater puddin', when it's made right, but 'tain't 
everybody that makes 'em right. I remember when I lived in 



504 ' FRANCES MIRIAM BERRY. 

Tuckertown, I was a visitin' to Squire Humprey's one time — I went 
in the first company in Tuckertown — dear me ! this is a changeable 
world. Wal, thej had what they called a potater puddin' for 
dinner. Good laud ! Of all the puddin's ! I've often occurred to 
that puddin' since, and wondered what the Squire's wife was a 
thinkin' of when she made it. I wa'n't ohleeged to do no such 
things in them days, and didn't know how to do anything as well 
as I do now. Necessity's the mother of invention. Experience is 
the best teacher after all — " 

" Do you sweeten it ?" 

" Oh, yes, to be sure it needs sugar, the best o' sugar, too ; not 
this wet, soggy, brown sugar. Some folks never think o' usin' good 
sugar to cook with, but for my part I won't have no other." 

" How much sugar do you take ?" 

" Wal, that depends altogether on whether you calculate to have 
sass for it — some like sass, you know, and then some agin don't. 
So, when I calculate for sass, I don't take so much sugar ; and 
when I don't calculate for sass, I make it sweet enough to eat with- 
out sass. Poor Mr. Mudlaw was a great hand for puddin'-sass. I 
always made it for him — good, rich sass, too. I could afford to have 
things rich before he was unfortinate in bisness." (Mudlaw went 
to State's prison for horse-stealing.) " I like sass myself, too ; and 
the curnel and the children are all great sass hands; and so I 
generally calculate for sass, though Miss Philpot prefers the puddin' 
without sass, and perhaps you'd prefer it without. If so, you must 
put in sugar accordingly. I always make it a pint to have 'em 
sweet enough when they're to be eat without sass." 

" And don't you use eggs ?" 

" Certainly, eggs is one o' the principal ingrejiences." 

" How many does it require ?" 

"Wal, when eggs is plenty, I always use plenty; and when 
they're scarce, why I can do with less, though I'd ruther have 
enough; and be sure to beat 'em well. It does distress me, the 
way some folks beat eggs. I always want to have 'em thoroughly 
beat for everything I use 'em in. It tries my patience most awfully 



FRANCES MIRIAM BERRY. 505 

to have anybody round me that won't beat eggs enough. A spell 
ago we had a darkey to help in the kitchen. One day I was a makin' 
sponge cake, and havin' occasion to go up stairs after something, I 
sot her to beatin' the eggs. Wal, what do you think the critter 
done ? Why, she whisked 'em round a few times, and turned 'em 
right onto the other ingrejiences that I'd got weighed out. When 
I come back and saw what she'd done, my gracious ! I came as nigh 
to losin' my temper as I ever allow myself to come. 'Twas awful 
provokin' ! I always want the kitchen help to do things as I want 
to have 'em done. But I never saw a darkey yet that ever done 
anything right. They're a lazy, slaughterin' set. To think o' her 
spilin' that cake so, when I'd told her over and over agin that I 
always made it a pint to have my eggs thoroughly beat !" 

" Yes, it was too bad. Do you use fruit in the pudding ?" 

" Wal, that's jest as you please. You'd better be governed by 
your own judgment as to that. Some like currants and some like 
raisins, and then agin some don't like nary one. If you use rai- 
sins, for pity's sake pick out the stuns. It's awful to have a body's 
teeth come grindin' onto a raisin stun. I'd rather have my ears 
boxt any time." 

" How many raisins must I take ?" 

" Wal, not too many — it's apt to make the puddin' heavy, you 
know ; and when it's heavy, it ain't so light and good. I'm a great 
hand—" 

" Yes. What do you use for flavouring ?" 

" There agin you'll have to exercise your own judgment. Some 
likes one thing, and some another, you know. If you go the hull 
figger on temperance, why some other kind o' flavourin' '11 do as 
well as wine or brandy, I s'pose. But whatever you make up your 
mind to use, be partic'lar to git in a suflEiciency, or else your puddin' 
'11 be flat. I always make it a pint — " 

" How long must it bake ?" 

" There's the great thing after all. The bakin' 's the main pint. 
A potater puddin', of all puddin's, has got to be baked jest right. 
For if it bakes a leetle too much, it 's apt to dry it up ; and then 
64 



506 FRANCES MIRIAM BERRY. 

agin if it don't bake quite enough, it's sure to taste potatory — and 
that spiles it, you know." 

" HoAV long should you think ?" 

" Wal, that depends a good deal on the heat o' your oven. If 
you have a very hot oven, 'twon't do to leave it in too long ; and if 
your oven ain't so very hot, why, you'll be necessiated to leave it in 
longer." 

" Well, how can I tell anything about it ?" 

"Why, I always let'em bake till I think they're done — that's 
the safest way. I make it a pint to have 'em baked exactly right. 
It's very important in all kinds o' bakin' — cake, pies, bread, pud- 
din's, and everything — to have 'em baked precisely long enough, 
and jest right. Some folks don't seem to have no system at all 
about their bakin'. One time they'll burn their bread to a crisp, 
and then agin it'll be so slack 'tain't fit to eat. Nothing hurts my 
feelin's so much as to see things overdone or slack-baked. Here 
only t'other day. Lorry, the girl that Miss Philpot dismissed yester- 
day, come within an ace o' letting my bread burn up. My back 
was turned a minnit, and what should she do but go to stuffin' wood 
into the stove at the awfullest rate. If I hadn't a found it out jest 
when I did, my bread would a ben spilt as sure as I'm a live woman. 
Jubiter Rammin ! I was about as much decomposed as I ever allow 
myself to git ! I told Miss Philpot I wouldn't stan' it no longer — 
one of us must quit — either Lorry or me must walk." 

" So you've no rule about baking this pudding?" 

"No rule !" said Mudlaw, with a look of intense surprise. 

"Yes," said Mrs. Darling, "you seem to have no rule for any- 
thing about it." 

"No rule !" screamed the indignant cook, starting up, while her 
red face grew ten times redder, and her little black eyes snapped 
with rage. " No rules ! do you tell me I've no rule ! Me ! that's 
cooked in the first families for fifteen years, and always gin satis- 
faction, to be told by such as you that I hain't no rules !' 



ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS. 



This well-known and elegant writer is a native of the city of Baltimore 
Her father, a gentleman of much cultivation, and of liberal fortune, was 
from the island of Cuba, and was of mixed English and Spanish parentage. 
At an early age she was sent to the admirable seminary of Mrs. Willard, 
at Troy, where for several years she was an ambitious and most successful 
student in all the higher branches of learning ; so that she has frequently 
been pronounced the most thoroughly educated of all the female writers 
of this country. The late Edgar A. Poe, struck with the classical finish 
displayed in some of her works which had fallen under his observation, 
sought her acquaintance, and has left, in his " Literati," an estimate of 
her acquired abilities equally decided and just. 

" She is not only cultivated, as respects the usual acquirements of her 
sex," he says, "but excels as a modern linguist, and very especially as a 
classical scholar ; while her scientific acquisitions are of no common order. 
Her occasional translations, from the more difficult portions of Virgil, 
have been pronounced by our first professors, the best of the kind yet 
accomplished — a commendation which only a thorough classicist can 
appreciate in its full extent." 

She is mistress of several modern as well as ancient languages, and 
speaks and writes fluently in French, Spanish, and Italian. 

It is as a poetess that Mrs. Lewis is best known ; since it is only in 
poetry that she has published largely under her proper signature. The 
volumes entitled "Records of the Heart," "The Child of the Sea," 
" Myths of the Minstrel," attest her fine taste, vigorous imagination, and 
singular control of all the harmonies of our language. 

But in prose she has also written with force, precision, and elegance. 
Beginning while a school-girl, as a contributor to the " Family Magazine," 
edited by Solomon Southwick, of Albany, and continuing (after her mar- 
riage to S. J). Lewis, Esq., a lawyer of Brooklyn) in the Democratic Review, 

(507) 



508 ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS. 

and other leading journals, she has produced a number and variety of essays, 
memoirs, and novelettes, altogether surprising. Among her latest produc- 
tions in this form is a series of sketches of the leading artists of the 
United States, published in Graham's Magazine, and widely copied. They 
are models of narration and critical exposition in its most difficult depart- 
ment. 

Mrs. Lewis is not less highly esteemed for her personal graces than for 
her literary eminence; and her hospitable home in Brooklyn is the 
frequent resort of men and women of genius and accomplishments in 
letters and the arts, as well as of an enviable circle of friends known only 
in private society. 



ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS. 509 



IMAGINATION. 

Imagination is a complex power. It includes conception or 
simple apprehension, abstraction, judgment or taste, and fancy. 
When Milton created his garden of Eden, association suggested to 
him a vast variety of natural objects ; conception placed each of 
them before him in its rude state ; abstraction separated them, 
while taste made a selection, out of which, by a skilful combina- 
tion, imagination created a more perfect and beautiful landscape 
than was ever realized in nature. 

Taste and imagination are inseparable. An union of these two 
powers in the same mind is necessary for the production of every 
work of genius. Without taste imagination could produce only a 
random analysis and combination of our conceptions, and without 
imagination taste would be destitute of the faculty of invention. 
The one supports the other. 

Of all our faculties imagination is the most subservient to mortal 
happiness. It is the great source of human activity and of human 
progress. It dwells not on the past. It fills the future with 
eternal beacons of hope, love, beauty, compensation ; and lends to 
the pilgrim courage to overcome all intervening obstacles to reach 
the illusive goal of unattainable bliss. Persuasion and illusion are 
its cardinal virtues — its matchless powers. It closes the eyes of 
reason, and leads all the other faculties captive. It is the lightning 
that illumes the sunless paths in the great desert of life, — the 
master artist of the mind, who hangs the picture galleries of the 
soul with worlds of its own creation, and dreams that were never 
realized save in heaven. 

Imagination is unlimited. It can create and annihilate, and 
dispose at pleasure. It seizes upon all materials. It knows no 
obstacles. It acknowledges no bounds. It plunges into the fiery 
heart of man — drinks the liquse vitse of its arteries, sips at its 
crystal springs, gathers diamonds from its deserts ; fruits, flowers, 
and sweet music from its oasis, and celestial fires from the bosom 



510 ES TELLE ANNA LEWIS. 

of its simoom. It looks not into the eyes — it lists not the voice — 
it takes no cognisance of the outward features ; yet it talks with the 
soul, with hope, love, sorrow, bliss — lays its finger on the pulse 
of life, and counts its finest vibrations. It peoples the dark bosoms 
of mountains with ghouls, goblins, and witches ; the trackless 
forests with tribes of nymphs, sylphs, and fairies ; the ocean with 
sea-gods, green-haired water-nymphs, mermaids, naiads, and levia- 
thans : and amid the thunders of Jove sits on the stars, gathering 
the fires of heaven. In fine, it peoples every atom of earth, sea, 
air, with the beings of its own boundless brain, and then fuses them 
down into its own white fire. 



ART. 

What is the chief end of high poetry, of high painting, and of 
high sculpture ? Those who argue that information and entertain- 
ment constitute their highest aim, deprive them of their divinity. 
Entertainment and information are not all that the mind requires 
at the hands of the artist. We wish to be elevated by the contem- 
plation of what is noble; to be warmed by the presence of the 
heroic, and charmed and made happy by the sight of purity and 
loveliness. We desire to share in the lofty movements of great 
minds — to have communion with all their images of what is godlike — 
and to take a part in the raptures of their love, and in the ecstasies 
of their innermost beings. 

The real value and immortality of the productions of all art, 
lies in their truth, as embodying the spirit of a particular age, 
and a faith that lived in men's souls, and worked in their acts — a 
faith, whose expression and impress time cannot obliterate, but 
leaves standing, the eternal Mecca of thought, love, imagination — 
grand, awful, soul-lifting, heart-speaking as the pyramids of 
Egypt. 

We do not propose to consider, in this essay, art with reference 



ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS. 511 

to any creed, religious or classic, nor with reference to taste, 
whetlier it leans to piety or poetry, to the real or ideal ; but simply 
as art — art the interpreter between nature and man — art evolving 
to us nature's forms with the utmost truth of imitation, and, at the 
same time, clothing them with a high significance derived from the 
human purpose and the human intellect. Art is only perfect when 
it fills us with the idea of perfection ; when it presents to our minds 
a perfect structure of life, form, action, beauty, heart, soul ; when 
it calls not upon our judgments to supply deficiencies, or to set 
limits to the bounds of fancy and imagination. This lifting up of 
the heart and soul, this fulness of satisfaction, this brimming of 
the bowl of delight, we have never found, save in a few of the 
old masters. 



CAROLINE CHESEBEO'. 



Miss Chesebro' has been before the public as an author for four or 
five years, at first by means of short stories in the Magazines and other 
periodicals, and afterwards by larger publications. Her first volume was a 
collection of these Magazine stories, under the title of " Dreamland by 
Daylight," which appeared in 1851. In March, 1852, "Isa, a Pilgrim- 
age," was published. It was a novel of a highly original character, and 
one which gave rise to the greatest contrariety of opinions, both respecting 
its merits as a composition, and the revelations it was supposed to make 
of the social and religious views of its author. The most considerate and 
impartial judgment of the merits of " Isa" with which we have met, was 
given by the accomplished critic of Harper's Magazine. "We quote the 
greater part of it, as also the same critic's opinion of her former work. 

"In 'Dreamland,'" says this writer, "we find the unmistakeable evi- 
dences of originality of mind, an almost superfluous depth of reflection for 
the department of composition to which it is devoted, a rare facility in 
seizing the multiform aspects of nature, and a still rarer power of giving 
them the form and hue of imagination, without destroying their identity. 
The writer has not yet attained the mastery of expression, corresponding 
to the liveliness of her fancy and the intensity of her thought. Her style 
suffers from the want of proportion, of harmony, of artistic modulation, 
and though frequently showing an almost masculine energy, is destitute 
of the sweet and graceful fluency which would finely attemper her bold 
and striking conceptions. We do not allude to this in any spirit of carping 
censure ; but to account for the want of popular effect which, we appre- 
hend, will not be so decided in this volume as in future productions of the 
author. She has not yet exhausted the golden placers of her genius ; but 
the products will obtain a more active currency when they come refined 
and brilliant from the mint, with a familiar legible stamp, which can be 
read by aU without an effort." 

(512) 



CAROLINE CHESEBRO'. 513 

"Isa," the same reviewer says, "is a more ambitious effort than tho 
former productions of the authoress, displaying a deeper power of reflec- 
tion, a greater intensity of passion, and a more complete mastery of terse 
and pointed expression. On the whole, we regard it as a successful speci- 
men of a quite difiicult species of composition. Without the aid of a 
variety of incident or character, with scarcely a sufficient number of events 
to give a fluent movement to the plot, and with very inconsiderable refer- 
ence to external nature, the story turns on the development of an abnormal 
spiritual experience, showing the perils of entire freedom of thought in a 
powerful, original mind, during the state of intellectual transition between 
attachment to tradition and the supremacy of individual conviction. The 
scene is laid in the interior world — the world of consciousness, of reflection, 
of passion. In this twilight region, so often peopled with monstrous 
shapes, and spectral phantasms, the author treads with great firmness 
of step. With rare subtlety of discrimination, she brings hidden springs 
of action to light, untwisting the tangled webs of experience, and revealing 
with painful minuteness, some of the darkest and most fearful depths of 
the human heart. The characters of Isa and Stuart, the leading person- 
ages of the story, certainly display uncommon insight and originality. 
They stand out from the canvass in gloomy, portentous distinctness, with 
barely light enough thrown upon them to enable us to recognise their 
weird, mysterious features. For our own part, we should prefer to meet 
this writer, whose rare gifts we cordially acknowledge, in a more sunny 
atmosphere ; but we are bound to do justice to the depth and vigour of the 
present too sombre creation." 

Miss Chesebro's other publications have been " The Children of Light," 
in 1852; a book for children in 1853, called "The Little Cross-Bearers;" 
besides almost continual contributions to the first-class Magazines. She is 
a native of Canandaigua, New York, at which place she has always resided. 

The extract which follows is from the introductory chapter of " Isa." 



65 



514 CAROLINE CHESEBRO'. 



THE PAUPER CHILD AND THE DEAD WOMAN. 

A W03IAN had died in the poor-liouse ; and her funeral was to 
take place that day. Before her last illness, or rather before its 
increase unto death, and during all its continuance, till the very 
night of her death, I had slept in her room, in a state of hushed 
and terrified, but then to me, unexplainable awe ; I lived with her, 
and helped to attend her during her last days. She had long 
existed a mere miserable wreck of humanity, hideous to look upon. 
But she had always been kind to me, and I entertained such a sort 
of regard, and respect, and feeling for her, as made it very dread- 
ful for me to witness her increased sufferings. 

What death really meant I could not clearly understand. 
They came out from her room that last night, and said, " She is 
gone !" they said it in such a way as made me shudder. Dead ! 
I kept thinking the word over and over. Gone — where ? She 
was lying there on the bed. I saw that through a crack in the 
door to which I crept, when none were by. She certainly was 
there; — what had gone? She was "dead." Could anything 
awaken her — could she hear — could she speak still ? It was . a 
mystery. I heard some of the other old women talking together — 
they seemed glad, for some reason, that she was dead; that she 
would never want for anything again, that her sufferings were 
over, they said. The silence about the house oppressed me ; 
I could hardly breathe in it ; it frightened me ; and I went 
oflf, to get rid of my thoughts, with the other children, to a 
playhouse in a corner of the yard. But, before noon, I got 
tired of them ; I could think of nothing but the dead old 
woman. It seemed wrong in me to think of anything else. She 
used to call me child, and dear, sometimes, and I loved her for 
that, if for no other reason. They were at dinner ; I did not 
want to eat, so I went and hung around the door of the chamber 
where she still was sleeping. Wondering yet, and continually, 
■what Death meant, and if she were happy, and if / should ever 



CAROLINE CHESEBRO'. 515 

be happy, and, if so, would I be happy before I died, and if people 
could die whenever they wished to do so. Suddenly an uncontrollable 
desire seized me. I would find it all out at once. I would ask 
mammy ! she could tell me what I wanted to know ; she was dead — 
she must know all about it ! 

I went softly into the room, and shut the door after me. Then 
I paused a moment, in doubt, for she was not lying on that bed 
in the corner of the room, where she had lain ever since I could 
recollect ; but near the bed there was a high table, and a board upon 
it, and that was covered with a cloth. Something told me she must 
be there ; I had often seen her sleeping with the bed-clothes drawn 
over her head. I went up to the table carrying a chair with me, 
for I was bent on knowing all about it now. I placed the chair 
close beside the table, and then stood upon it, and uncovered her 
face. The sight that met my eyes took away my breath for a 
moment ; I had never seen anything like it before, and her appear- 
ance startled me beyond measure. It was a horrid spectacle. The 
recollection makes me tremble to this day. If I had never seen 
another corpse, that remembrance would tempt me to say, how 
horrible, as well as how wonderful, is death ! Her face was always 
pale, but not of that hue — and it was always wrinkled, and had an 
ugly look, yet she was not ugly; there was now a fixedness, a 
rigidity, in the wrinkles and the colourless face, that made it awful 
beyond imagination. It struck such a chill, such a horror through 
me, that for many minutes, in my astonishment and terror, I forgot 
to ask what I intended. Then again I recollected the object with 
which I went there, and said : — 

" Mammy, are you happy ? Do you sleep good ?" 

No answer. I would have one. I had broken the awful 
silence, and was not to be quieted again. That silence, at least, 
could not chill me to quiet ; it the rather hurried me on in my 
questioning. They would be coming back, and I must hear from 
her lips what I longed to know. 

"Mammy," I said, "do you have hateful dreams? Do you 
know what's going on here ? Can you tell me what they're going to 



516 CAROLINE CHESEBEO'. 

do with you ? Mammy ! wont you look at me ? Are you sorry 
they moved you from the other bed? Oh, do say somethmg !" 

I stooped over her ; I had at first spoken in a whisper, but the 
last query was made in a loud voice. I bent further down — my 
face touched hers ! God ! what an embrace was that ! The chair 
on which I stood, slipped, in my impetuous movement ; I fell, and 
— fainted ! 

When my consciousness retm-ned, the corpse had been removed, 
but the broken board, and overturned chair, and table, told me what 
a sight must have been presented to the people when they came 
into that room. 



ELIZA FAURAR. 



This estimable writer is the wife of Professor John Farrar, of Harvard 
University. Her writings have been prompted evidently by the aim to be 
useful, rather than by love of notoriety or fame. They have been directed 
chiefly to the improvement of her own sex and of the young. The titles of 
some of these useful volumes are, " The Children's Robinson Crusoe," " The 
Life of Lafayette," ''The Life of Howard," "Youth's Letter Writer." 
But the work, beyond all others, by which she is most extensively and 
most favourably known, is " The Young Lady's Friend." It was first 
published in 1837, and it has gone through a very large number of edi- 
tions, both here and in England. It is a manual of practical advice to 
young ladies on their entering upon the active duties of life, after leaving 
school. It contains no flights of fancy, or attempts at fine writing, but for 
sound, practical sense, expressed in good English, and in a style perfectly 
adapted to the subject, it is a work worthy of Hannah More or Maria 
Edgeworth. 



(517) 



518 ELIZA FARRAR. 



BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 



If your brothers are younger than you are, encourage them to 
be perfectly confidential with you ; win their friendship by your 
sympathy in all their concerns, and let them see that their interests 
and their pleasures are liberally provided for in the family arrange- 
ments. Never disclose their little secrets, however unimportant 
they seem to you ; never pain them by an ill-timed joke ; never 
repress their feelings by ridicule ; but be their tenderest friend, 
and then you may become their ablest adviser. If separated from 
them by the course of school or college education, make a point of 
keeping up your intimacy by full, free, and afiectionate correspond- 
ence ; and when they return home, at that awkward age between 
youth and manhood, when reserve creeps over the mind like an 
impenetrable veil, suffer it not to interpose between you and your 
brothers. Cultivate their friendship and intimacy with all the 
address and tenderness you possess ; for it is of unspeakable im- 
portance to them that their sisters should be their confidential 
friends. Consider the loss of a ball or party, for the sake of 
making the evening pass pleasantly to your brothers at home, as a 
small sacrifice, — as one you should unhesitatingly make. If they 
go into company with you, see that they are introduced to the most 
desirable acquaintances, and show them that you are interested in 
their enjoying themselves. 

If you are so happy as to have elder brothers, you should be 
equally assiduous in cultivating their friendship, though the 
advances must of course be differently made. As they have long 
been accustomed to treat you as a child, you may meet with some 
repulses when you aspire to become a companion and friend ; but 
do not be discouraged by this. The earlier maturity of girls will 
soon render you their equal in sentiment, if not in knowledge, and 
your ready sympathy will soon convince them of it. They will be 
agreeably surprised when they find their former plaything and 
messenger become their quick-sighted and intelligent companion, 



ELIZA FARRAR. 519 

understanding at a glance what is passing in their heart ; and love 
and confidence on your part will soon be repaid in kind. Young 
men often feel the want of a confidential friend of the softer sex, to 
sympathize with them in their little afiairs of sentiment, and happy 
are those who find one in a sister. 

Once possessed of an elder brother's confidence, spare no pains 
to preserve it; convince him, by the little sacrifices of personal 
convenience and pleasure which you are willing to make for him, 
that when you do oppose his wishes, it is on principle, and for con- 
science' sake ; then you will be a blessing to him, and even when 
differing from you, he will love and respect you the more for your 
adherence to a high standard. 

So many temptations beset young men, of which young women 
know nothing, that it is of the utmost importance that your brothers' 
evenings should be happily passed at home, that their friends should 
be your friends, that their engagements should be the same a.s 
yours, and that various innocent amusements should be provided 
for them in the family circle. Music is an accomplishment chiefly 
valuable as a home enjoyment, as rallying round the piano the 
various members of a family, and harmonizing their hearts as well 
as voices, particularly in devotional strains. I know no more 
agreeable and interesting spectacle, than that of brothers and 
sisters playing and singing together those elevated compositions in 
music and poetry, which gratify the taste and purify the heart, 
while their fond parents sit delighted by. 

Sisters should be always willing to walk, ride, visit with their 
brothers, and esteem it a privilege to be their companions. It is 
worth while to learn innocent games for the sake of furnishing 
brothers with amusement, and making home the most agreeable 
place to them. 

If your brothers take an interest in your personal appearance 
and dress, you should encourage the feeling by consulting their 
taste, and sacrificing any little fancy of your own to a decided dis- 
like of theirs. Brothers will generally be found strongly opposed 
to the slightest indecorum in sisters ; even those who look with 



520 ELIZA FARE A R. 

indifference upon freedom of manners in other girls, have very 
strict notions with regard to their own sisters. Their intercourse 
with all sorts of men enables them to judge of the constructions 
put upon certain actions, and modes of dress and speech, much 
better than women can ; and you will do well to take their advice 
on all such points. 

Sisters should as scrupulously regard each other's rights of pro- 
perty as they would those of a guest staying in the house ; they 
should never help themselves without leave to the working mate- 
rials, writing implements, drawing apparatus, books, or clothing of 
each other. It is a mistake to suppose that the nearness of the 
relationship makes it allowable ; the more intimate our connexion 
with any one, the more necessary it is to guard ourselves against 
taking unwarrantable liberties. For the very reason that you are 
obliged to be so much together, you should take care to do nothing 
disagreeable to each other. 

Love is a plant of delicate growth, and though it sometimes 
springs up spontaneously, it will never flourish long and well with- 
out careful culture. When I see how it is treated in some families, 
my wonder is, not that it does not spread so as to overshadow the 
whole circle, but that any sprig of it should survive the rude treat- 
ment it meets with. 

Genuine politeness is a gi'eat fosterer of family love ; it allays 
accidental irritation, by preventing harsh retorts and rude contra- 
dictions ; it softens the boisterous, stimulates the indolent, sup- 
presses selfishness, and, by forming a habit of consideration for 
others, harmonizes the whole. Politeness begets politeness, and 
brothers may easily be won by it to leave off the rude ways they 
bring home from school or college. Never receive any little atten- 
tion without thanking them for it, never ask a favour of them but 
in cautious terms, never reply to their questions in monosyllables, 
and they will soon be ashamed to do such things themselves. You 
should labour, by precept and example, to convince them that no 
one can have really good manners abroad, who is not habitually 
polite at home. 



HANNAH F. LEE. 



The work of Mrs. Lee ■which has been the most extensively and per- 
manently popular, is the " Three Experiments of Living." It was pub- 
lished in 1838, and it has gone through about thirty editions in this 
country, besides numerous editions in England. Besides this, she has 
published a novel, called "Grace Seymour," and a large number of juvenile 
books, to none of which, however, she has put her name. 

Mrs. Lee's writings are pervaded throughout with a tone of good sense, 
and a desire to be useful. She is a keen observer of the follies of social 
life, and in pruning its excrescences she does not hesitate to apply the 
knife freely. She is animated, however, by a spirit of true Christian 
benevolence; and her writings have been as useful as they have been 
popular. 

Mrs. Lee is a native of Newburyport, Massachusetts, and she resides at 
present in Boston. 

The extracts are from the " Three Experiments of Living." 



66 (521) 



522 HANNAH F. LEE. 



BEGINNING LIFE. 

Most young physicians begin life witli some degree of patronage, 
but Frank Fulton had none ; he came to the city a stranger, from the 
■\vilds of Yermont, fell in love with Jane Churchwood,— uncle Joshua's 
niece, — a man ^Yhom nobody knew, and "whose independence 
consisted in limiting his -wants to his moans. What little he could 
do for Jane, he cheerfully did. But after all necessary expenses 
■were paid, the young people had but just enough between them to 
secure their first quarter's board, and place a sign on the corner 
of the house, by special permission, Avith Doctor Fidton handsomely 
inscribed upon it. The sign seemed to excite but little attention, — 
as nobody called to see the owner of it, — though he was at home 
every hour in the day. 

After a week of patient expectation, which could not be said to 
pass lieavily, — for they worked, read, and talked together, — Frank 
thought it best to add to the sign. Practises for the poor (j/raiis. 
At the end of a few days another clause was added, FurmsJtes 
medicines to those who cannot afford to pay for them. In a very 
short time, the passers by stopped to spell out the Avords, and Frank 
soon began to reap tlie benefit of this addition. Various applica- 
tions were made, and tJiough they did not as yet promise any in- 
crease of revenue, he was Avilling to pay for the first stepping-stone. 
What had begun, however, from true New England calculation, was 
continued from benevolence. He was introduced to scenes of 
misery, that made him forget all but the desire of relieving the 
wretchedness he witnessed ; and when he related to his young and 
tender-hearted wife, the situation in which he found a mother con- 
fined to her bed, with two or three helpless children crying around 
her for bread, Jane would put on her straw bonnet, and follow him 
with a light step to the dreary abode. The first quarter's board 
came round; it Avas paid, and left them nearly penniless. There is 
something in benevolent purpose, as well as in industry, that cheers 
and supports the mind. Never was Jane's step lighter, nor her 



HANNAH F. LEE. 523 

smile gayer, than at present. But this could not last ; the next 
quarter's board must be provided, — and how ? Still the work of 
mercy went on, and did not grow slack. 



LIVING BEYOND THE MEANS. 

Jane was not behind Mrs. Bradish, in costume or figure. Every 
morning, at the hour for calls, she was elegantly attired for visiters. 
Many came from curiosity. Mrs. Hart congratulated her dear 
friend, on seeing her moving in a sphere for which it was evident 
nature intended her. Mrs. Reed cautioned her against any mauvaise 
Jtonte, that might remind one of former times. Others admired her 
furniture and arrangements, without any sly allusions. On one of 
these gala mornings, uncle Joshua was ushered into the room. Jane 
was fortunately alone, and she went forward and oifcrcd two fingers 
with a cordial air, but whispered to the servant, " if any one else 
called while he was there, to say she was engaged." She had 
scrupulously observed her promise, of never sending word she was 
not at home. There was a mock kind of deference in his air and 
manner that embarrassed Jane. 

" So," said he, looking round him, "we have a palace here !" 

" The house we were in was quite too small, now that our children 
are growing so large," replied Jane. 

" They must be greatly beyond the common size," said uncle 
Joshua, "if that house could not hold them." 

" It was a very inconvenient one ; and we thought, as it was a 
monstrous rent, it would do better to take another. Then, after we 
had bought this, it certainly was best to furnish it comfortably, as 
it was for life." 

" Is it paid for ?" asked uncle Joshua, dryly. 

Jane hesitated. 

"Paid for ? certainly ; that is, — yes, sir." 



524 HANNAH F. LEE. 

" I am glad to hear it ; otherwise, I much doubt if it is taken 
for life." 

Jane was silent. 

"Very comfortable," said uncle Joshua; "that is a comfortable 
glass for your husband to shave by ; and those are comfortable cur- 
tains, to keep out the sun and cold." Both of these articles Avere 
strikingly elegant. " That is a comfortable lamp that hangs in the 
middle of the room; it almost puts out my eyes with its glass 
danglers. Times are strangly altered, Jane, since you and I 
thought such comforts necessary. 

"Frank has been very successful in his speculations, uncle; he 
does not now depend on his profession for a living; indeed, he thinks 
it his duty to live as other people do, and place his wife and children 
upon an equality with others." 

"And Avhat do you call an equality, — living as luxuriously, and 
wasting as much time, as they do ? Dwelling in as costly apart- 
ments, and forgetting there is any other world than this ? When 
you were left to my care, and your dear mother was gone from us, 
how often I lamented that I could not supply her place, — that I 
could not better talk to you of another world, to which she had 
gone ; but then, Jane, I comforted myself that I knew something 
of the duties that belonged to this, and that if I fixithfully instructed 
you in these, I should be preparing you for another. When I saw 
you growing up, dutiful and humble, charitable, self-denying, sincere, 
and a conscientious disciple of truth, then I felt satisfied that all 
was well. But I begin now to fear that it Avas a shortsighted kind 
of instruction, — that it had not power enough to enable us to hold 
fast to what is right. I begin now to see that we must have motives 
that do not depend on the praise or censure of this world, — motives 
that must have nothino; to do with it." 



CAROLINE THOMAS. 



Miss Thomas (if indeed that be a real name — which has been publicly 
doubted) is known to the world only as the author of " Farmingdale," a 
novel, in two volumes, published in 1854. The work has not as yet 
created what is called a sensation. It is quiet in its tone, and it has not 
been ushered upon the public with any of that '' pomp and circumstance" 
now so common. But the impression, so far as we have heard, of every 
one who has read the work, is, that it must, sooner or later, win its way 
into general notice, and that the author, whoever she be, is one who will 
certainly make her mark. 

" Farmingdale" is thoroughly indigenous, every page and paragraph 
being redolent of its native soil. It is a tale of New England domestic 
life, in its incidents and manners so true to nature and so free from exag- 
geration, and in its impulses and motives throughout so throbbing with 
the real American heart, that we seem ourselves to have seen, twenty times 
over, just such woods and skies, and to have known by scores just such men 
and women, and children, too, as those described by the author of " Farm- 
ingdale." 

The story is very simple in plot, and rather bare of incident. The 
author evidently relies for her effects more upon the direct force of truth 
and nature, than upon that artificial interest which grows out of complexity 
of plan, and multiplicity of actors. This is subjecting her work to a 
severe test. But it can bear the ordeal. The story abounds in scenes of 
absorbing interest. The narrative is everywhere delightfully clear and 
straight-forward, flowing forth towards its conclusion, like a gentle and 
limpid stream, between graceful hillsides and verdant meadows. In the 
conception and delineation of character. Miss Thomas is bold and clear, 
always individualizing perfectly. In the delicate appreciation of what is 
beautiful, whether in human character or in circumstances and events, in 
the skilful grouping of incidents, and in all those numberless graces of 
style and diction which give finish and tone to a work of fiction, the 
author of " Farmingdale" has shown herself a true artist. 

To understand the extract which follows, it is necessary to say, that 
Mary and Tommy Lester were two orphan children, living at a farm- 
house, with their only surviving relation, a hard-hearted old aunt. It is a 
fair specimen of the author's style of description and narration. 

(525) 



526 CAROLINE THOMAS. 



TRIALS. 



The garret of a country farm-liouse has been so often and so ably 
described — its time-stained, weather-beaten walls, its dark rafters, 
dim recesses, and shadowy corners, have figured upon so many a 
page of story and romance, that it is not necessary to paint them 
here. Sufiice it to say, that this was a large, low room, lighted at 
either end by a semicircular window, and containing its full share 
of old clothes and empty barrels. Strings of seed-corn, dried 
apples, and red peppers hung upon the walls, together with huge 
bunches of dried herbs, and paper bags filled with sage and summer- 
savory. A large rope was securely fastened across one corner, and 
upon it were arranged the feather-beds, for which the family found 
no use during the summer. There was a broken reel, a pair of 
swifts that looked as if they had seen hard service, and a spinning- 
wheel. 

But what more immediately concerned Tommy, was a large blue 
and white blanket filled with wool, and fastened together by long, 
sharp thorns, in lieu of pins. It lay on the floor in one corner, but 
Mrs. Graham hauled it into the middle of the room, directly in the 
range of the two windows, pulled out the thorns, and straightened 
the blanket. Then she spread a clean sheet at a little distance, and 
looked about her, seemingly in search of something else. Presently 
she spied a small box, turned up against the wall, and bringing that, 
she placed it bottom side up between the two. 

" There, Tommy, you set down on that box, and go to picking 
this wool. Put what you pick in this sheet." 

"I don't know how to pick it," said Tommy, looking dubiously 
at the immense (so it appeared to his eyes) pile before him. 

" You don't ? Well, it won't take me long to show you. You 
must take a handful — so — and pull each lock apart in this way ; and 
when you find any burs, or any ticks, or anything, you mus-t be sure 
to get them all out." 

" What are ^zV/ts .^" asked Tommy. 



CAROLINE THOMAS. 527 

" There's one ; tliat little brown thing." 

" Is it alive?" 

" 'Twon't bite, if 'tis. Come, don't take hold so carefully, as if 
you was afraid of dirtying your fingers. Be spry." 

She stood watching Tommy for a while, as he pursued his task, 
rather awkwardly at first, but more adroitly as he became fami- 
liar with the modus operandi, and then left him to go on with it 
alone. 

Tommy did not like his new business remarkably. It was dull 
and lonesome up there in the old garret, with nothing but the rats, 
that occasionally made him start as they scampered about in the 
walls, to keep him company. Still, for two or three days he bore 
it very well. It was a change, and all children like that. Once in 
a while Mary would steal away from her own work, and pay him a 
flying visit, just long enough to speak a few cheering words, or to 
give him a kiss, and sometimes more substantial aliment in the shape 
of an apple or a doughnut. But this was not often. 

One morning she noticed that he did not eat much breakfast, and 
that his eyes looked dull and heavy. He hung about while the table 
was being cleared, as if reluctant to go to his task, but said nothing. 
Pretty soon Mrs. Graham came in from the garden, with vegetables 
for dinner. 

" Mercy, Tommy ! ain't you to work yet ? Go right straight along 
up stairs — quick !" 

Tommy hesitated for a minute, "I've got a headache, aunt Betsy 
— a hard one." 

" Nonsense ! You always have a headache when a body wants to 
get any work out of you. Go along ; you'll be just as well off up 
there as down here, if it does ache." 

The child obeyed in silence ; but Mary caught a glimpse of his 
face as he turned to go up stairs, and its expression made her heart 
ache all the forenoon. She tried to find a spare moment in which 
she might run up and see how he was. It was an unusually busy 
day with her, however, and she did not succeed. 

When the horn was blown for dinner, he came down, looking pale 



528 CAROLINE THOMAS. 

and sad ; but as he made no complaint, Mary said notMng to Mm 
about bis head. She had long ago learned that it is seldom worth 
■while to remind a child that it does not feel well. He came to the 
table with the rest, ate a few mouthfuls, and then pushed his plate 
back with an air of disgust. 

"What's the matter with your victuals, Tom?" asked Mrs. 
Graham. 

" Nothing ; only I don't like pork and beans, nor beets either. 
They make me sick. I wish I could have some bread and milk." 

" Well, you ain't a-going to : if you can't eat what's on the table, 
you can go without your dinner. You needn't be so mighty par- 
ticular." 

Tommy swallowed a few mouthfuls of dry bread, and left the 
table. He walked about in the yard until the men were done 
eating, and then Mrs. Graham called him, and sent him up stairs 
again. 

" And you must hurry with that wool. Tommy," she said ; " I 
want it out of the way just as quick as ever it can be." 

The garret was intensely hot. The fervid August sun beat 
directly down upon the roof; one window was partly open, but it 
seemed to give admission to scarce a breath of air. Tommy 
climbed up on an inverted barrel, and tried to unfasten the window 
opposite. It resisted all his efforts, and he returned wearily to his 
little seat again, and his fingers resumed their monotonous employ- 
ment. He glanced at the open window. He could see the tops of 
the cherry-trees waving in the light breeze that might not reach his 
burning brow. On the loftiest branch a little bird swayed to and 
fro, chirruping merrily. Occasionally, as the breeze freshened, 
he could hear the rustling of the leaves ; and when it died away, 
the faint murmur of the creek would reach his ear, filling his little 
heart with a feverish longing to bathe in its cool waters. But 
that was only when he listened intently. For the most part of 
the time he heard nothing but the creaking [of an old window- 
shutter, that swung lazily on its rusty hinges. The sound became 
inexpressibly annoying to him. He was exceedingly afraid of 



CAROLINE THOMAS. 529^ 

thunder : yet the wildest war of the elements would have been a 
relief to him. 

His seat was hard, and there was nothing to support his 
back. He wondered if he couldn't fix it somehow, and that 
diverted his thoughts for a few moments. There was an old 
cushion peeping out from beneath some rubbish in one corner. 
With a good deal of effort he succeeded in pulling it out and carry- 
ing it to his seat ; he laid it on the box, and sat down to try the 
effect. 

" There, that's nice," he said : " now if I only had something to 
lean against, I should be fixed. Oh, there's a bigger box : that will 
do, if I can only get it here." 

He dragged the box from its place, and set it up in the required 
position. But when he attempted to lean against it, it was not 
sufficiently heavy, and his weight pushed it back. What should he 
do now ? Not give it up ; he was in no mood for that. Looking 
about him, he spied some billets of wood that had been carried 
there, doubtless for some wise purpose ; and, one by one, he brought 
them and put them in the box. 

" This goes better, a great deal," said Tommy. " Now I can 
lean my head against it, and I guess it won't ache so hard." 

It did not; but his comparatively easy position, and the dull 
drowsy nature of his work, were too much for him. Slowly his head 
drooped upon one side, his fingers grew still, and then, with a 
sudden start, he straightened himself up, and put them in motion 
again. 

Of course, all this was not accomplished without some noise. 
The shoving of the large box across the floor was distinctly heard 
in the kitchen. 

" Hark !" exclaimed Mrs. Graham, " what is all that racket ? I 
arn sure it comes from the garret. I'll bet a shilling that boy plays 
half his time." 

She wanted very much to go immediately and learn the cause of 
the disturbance. But she was working butter, and could not 
conveniently leave it. As soon, however, as she had packed 

67 



530 CAROLINE THOMAS. 

it down, and put away her various utensils, she washed her 
hands and went up the first pair of stairs. Softly opening the 
door at the foot of those that led to the garret, she listened for 
a minute. If Tommy was in any mischief, he was very still 
about it ; but she thought she would go on and see what he had 
been doing. 

She mounted the stairs, and it was a moment or two before her 
eyes became accustomed to the dim light of the garret — dim, at least, 
when compared with that of the lower parts of the house — so as to 
admit of her seeing anything. Gradually one object after another 
became visible, and she saw Tommy lying, half upon his seat, half 
on the pile of wool, fast asleep ! 

Angrily she strode across the floor, grasped the little fellow by 
one arm, and raising him from his impromptu couch, shook him 
violently. 

Frightened and bewildered, the child did not speak nor cry, but 
stared about as if his senses were forsaking him. 

" What are you doing there, you lazy little imp ? — going to sleep 
on the Avool, instead of picking it — eh ? I've caught you finely this 
time. There, take that, and that, and that," and she brought her 
broad hand heavily against one side of his head and then the other, 
several times in succession. " How did you dare go to sleep when 
I sent you up here to work — eh?" 

Tommy was fairly stunned by the heavy blows. His sudden 
awakening, too, had caused his old headache to return, with redoubled 
strength, and every nerve in his body thrilled with pain. He did 
not utter a word. 

"Answer me, when I speak to you, Tom Lester, if you know 
what's good for yourself. What made you go to sleep?" 

Tommy did not answer. It seemed to him that he could not. 

"Answer me !" and Mrs. Graham's hand was again raised. 

He shrank from the threatened blow. 

" Don't strike me again, aunt Betsy. I couldn't help it !" 

His aunt's eye was roving about the room. 

"No wonder you couldn't. What's this cushion doing here ?" 



CAROLINE THOMAS. 531 

" I got it to sit on," said Tommy. "The box was so hard." 

" So hard ! And what's this for ?" 

"For me to lean against. My head ached, and my back. I feel 
sick, aunt Betsy ; and it's so hot !" 

" I think it's very likely," said Mrs. Graham, mockingly ; " being 
woke tip don't agree with you. But I guess you'll get over 
it. Now, put these things back where they belong, and then see 
if you can sit up straight, and attend to your work. And don't 
you let me catch you asleep again. If you do, it will be the v/orse 
for you." 

She remained in the garret while the cushion, billets of wood, and 
box were being restored to their respective places, and until Tommy 
was again seated on his box. Then, with an admonitive warning, 
she descended the stairs. 

Half an hour afterwards, Mary went up to her own room after a 
clean apron, and while taking it from the closet shelf, she thought 
she heard a low, suppressed sobbing from the garret. Up she flew, 
to see what was the matter. 

Tommy was at work, picking his wool with busy fingers ; but tears 
were chasing each other down his cheeks, and he did .not stop to 
wipe them away. As he raised his eyes and saw Mary, he dropped 
the wool, and sprang eagerly into her arms. 

"Oh, Mary, Mary!" he sobbed, "you haven't been to see me 
once in all this long day !" 

" I know it. Tommy darling; but I have been just as busy as I 
could be, every single minute. What makes you cry so, dear ?" 
and she tenderly smoothed back his brown curls, and kissed his 
little tear-stained face. 

But he only cried the more. 

".Oh, my head aches so badly, Mary, and I am so tired ! I did not 
mean to go to sleep, but aunt Betsy boxed my ears very hard." 

Mary did not know what he meant, but by a little skilful ques- 
tioning she drew the whole story from him. An indignant flush 
mounted to her brow, and she clasped him closer to her breast. 



ELLEN LOUISE CHANDLER. 



It is something of an achievement for a young woman, at the age of 
only nineteen, to have written a book of nearly five hundred pages, of 
which a second edition was called for and printed, in less than three months 
from the date of the first. Such has been Miss Chandler's first experience 
of literary adventure. 

She was born at Pomfret, Connecticut, in the year 1835, at which place 
she has always continued to reside. The influences that have been at 
work in moulding her mind and character, can best be judged from a sketch 
of her early years communicated by herself to the Editor, from which he 
is permitted to make the following extract. 

"I commenced my school education," says Miss Chandler, "at the age 
of two years, and, during the period that followed, I was in no wise distin- 
guished from other fun-loving, school-disturbing little girls. My amuse- 
ments, it is true, were of a different character, but this fact arose from the 
circumstance of my being an only child. Casting my eyes outward from 
my window, I can see where the morning sunshine kisses the grave of my 
baby brother. Long before his feet had learned to tread the steep paths 
of earth, God gave him wings, wherewith to climb the stairs of Heaven. 
After that, I was alone. Had I been of a less imaginative temperament, 
this early loneliness might have soured my temper, and embittered my 
life. As it was, I found plenty of ideal companions. Before I could guide 
a pen, I used to weave romances. I remember, when I was four years old, 
to have carried in my head for weeks an embryo epic, entitled " The 
Spanish Knight," to which I was daily making additions. I used to gather 
pale, blue-eyed flowers, and tend them carefully, fancying they were young 
girls, fading with consumption. A feather, or even a sprig from the 
northern pine-tree, would suffice for a hero, and I was never lonely when 
surrounded by the creations of my fancy. 

" I formed friendships with the patient stars, or the black storm-clouds, 

(532) 



ELLEN LOUISE CHANDLER. 533 

sweeping the sky like contending armies ; but of all the voices of my child- 
hood, none spoke to nic so lovingly as the winds. I believed, in those days, 
that they blew right out of Heaven, from under the very foot-stool of AUa's 
throne ; and listening to them, with my ear at the key-hole of an outside 
door opening to the north, I believed that I was hearing the secrets of the 
stars, that 

"It was the Spirit of tlie Flood that spoke, 
And lie called on the Spirit of the Fell." 

"It was (or rather, it is, for I reside here still) a beautiful home, where 
I lived with ray parents. I cannot conceive a more delightful dwelling- 
place for a child, whose worship for the beautiful amounted to a passion, 
whose very soul thrilled a response to all the voices of nature. I raise my 
eyes — a landscape lies spread before mc, so fair, description could not 
realize half its charms. A low murmur steals to my car, from subterra- 
nean fountains, and, to the eastward, lies the valley of the Quinebaug, dis- 
tinguished for an appearance I have never seen cLsewhcre. It is a kind of 
phantom-sea. A mist rises from the valley, so heavy that strangers always 
mistake it for a large pond ; but to me it is a mighty sea, whereon spectral 
ships are sailing, and the skeleton at the helm talks to the skeleton at the 
prow. 

" I have grown up among the sights and sounds of nature, and my soul 
leans lovingly toward them. There is something in the very atmosphere 
of a city which seems to stifle me. My heart needs the blue sky, the green 
fields, and the free breath of the country breezes. My life has been passed 
for the most part in my quiet home, though I have had no small share 
of boarding-school experience. But the teacher to whom, most of all, my 
gratitude is due, is the Ilcv. Dr. Park, now President of Kacine College, and 
formerly, for some years. Professor in the University of Pennsylvania. For 
five years I was his pupil, and his kind hands opened for mc the gates of 
classic antiquity. 

" From him, I learned to love all that was grand and beautiful in the folios 
of the past, and the ancient and modern languages which I acquired under 
his tuition are daily opening to my eager gaze new mines of richness. I 
have in a great degree, however, been my own instructor. That is, I have 
been allowed for the most part, in my whole course of education, to follow 
the bent of my erratic and poetical fancy. If I learned geography, it was 
always with a map and a pencil, tracing out the mountain sources of mys- 
terious rivers, or building huts for South-sea Islanders, in imaginary groves 
of banyans. I studied mathematics, with an undefined sense of companion- 
ship with grim old Egyptian sages, and faces like the model for a Sphinx. 
I worshipped the stars, over my astronomy, with the devotion of a Chal- 



534 ELLEN LOUISE CHANDLER. 

dean, and rendered the Latin hexameters of my Virgil into English 
heroics. 

" I commenced writing for publication nearly four years since, at the age 
of fifteen, and my efforts were confined to the poetical corner of my 
favourite papers. A year later, I commenced to furnish prose contributions 
to the periodicals, over the signature of " Ellen Louise." I have not writ- 
ten for fame or fortune, but because I love to write, and cannot help it, 
any more than the free thrush in the cherry-tree at my window can help 
his singing." 

Miss Chandler's first volume was issued in May, 1854, and had such 
immediate success that a new edition was called for in August. It is a 
collection of stories, essays, reveries, and poems, under the odd but appro- 
priate title of " This, That, and the Other." These pieces give evidence of an 
extraordinary compass of thought and of reading, for one so young, a com- 
mand of expression ordinarily attained only after long years of apprentice- 
ship at the trade of authorship, a wild and frolicsome play of fancy that 
soberer years will probably tame, and occasional touches of pathos and 
tragedy that the stern realities of life all too soon will deepen. Miss 
Chandler is yet in the heyday of life, and the offering she brings is redo- 
lent of spring and flowers. The mellowed fruits of autumn will come in 
their season. 



ELLEN LOUISE CHANDLER. 535 



"I CANNOT MAKE HIM DEAD." 

Hush ! tread very lightly ! The long shadows stretch across the 
floor, the canary is silent in the window, the air seems heavy with 
the perfume of the violets you hold in your hand. 

There he lies, — your little Charlie ! Yes, yours, for Charlie's 
mother has gone to sleep. They put her down in the cold, dark 
earth, in the gray of a winter's morning ; daisies grow over her 
grave now, and wild birds, southern birds, with gay, brilliant wings, 
sing over her. Charley is yours. 

Watch him as he sleeps. The eye is like yours when it opens, 
but the blue-veined lid that closes over it is his mother's. Those 
lips are hers ! Do you remember how they trembled when you first 
told her your love, and how in long years they only parted to 
breathe for you words of gentle kindness ? Sometimes you were 
impatient, petulant. 0, how you repented it when it was too late ! 
But nothing had power to dim the love-light in those clear blue 
eyes — nothing ! not even death itself, for her last words were a 
blessing, when she died, and — gave you Charlie. 0, how you have 
loved that boy ! You have watched the breath of heaven, lest it 
fall too roughly on his cheek. You have buttoned your coat around 
you, as you turned homeward, after a profitable speculation, saying 
to yourself, "Yes, he shall be rich, my Charlie." 

But there came days when there was no little foot to meet you 
on the stair, no childish voice to whisper welcome. 

The room, your room and Charlie's, was hushed and still ; the 
nurse stepped softly ; the whip you bought him hung upon the wall, 
and Charlie could only whisper faint words of thanks for the flowers 
or fruit you brought him as you hurried homeward. Now you have 
come once more to look upon him, as he slumbers. It is fearful, all 
this stillness. " Charlie," you say, " Charlie !" Slowly the blue- 
veined lids uprise ; the dark eyes — your eyes — look up to your other 
eyes. 

Strange how bright they are ! You put the violets in that tiny 



536 ELLEN LOUISE CHANDLER. 

hand. He clasps them closely, but he whispers, " Papa, mamma 
has been singing me to sleep, and now she's calling me. Kiss me, 
papa !" and with that last, fond kiss your little boy's eyes close, and 
the white dimpled hands tighten over the fresh flowers. 

No need to step softly, lest you waken him. His mother guards 
her boy! No, no — you need not sob, or groan. Bear a brave 
heart, man ! 

Do you hear that carriage in the street ? Do you hear the town- 
clock strike, and the church-bells peal ? The world is going onward, 
brisk, lively, smiling as ever, with the joy-pulse beating at its great 
heart ; and you, what are you, that you should make your moan, 
sitting there in the silence, holding your dead boy to your breast ? 

"You cannot make him dead," you say, and small need! The 
earth was a cold soil for your fair flower to grow in. 

The great Gardener has transplanted it to the ever-blooming 
gardens of Paradise. He is yours still ! You have but nursed an 
angel for heaven ! You have held him on your lap, cradled him in 
your arms, and when you have hushed him to rest laid him down on 
the bosom of Jesus. No, to you, Charlie "is not dead, but 
sleepeth !" 



THE END. 



E. B, HEARS, STfiREOtYPatt. C. SHEEMAX, rRISTER. 



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